


Times, Measures

by cthene



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), M/M, Multi, OT3, That's Not How The Force Works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 42,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1784215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthene/pseuds/cthene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if, to stop Palpatine and win back Anakin, Obi Wan had made the boy a counter-offer? What if there was another ancient, forbidden power which might save Padmé and the Galaxy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He is falling through the black void salted with stars, constantly falling, and yet perfectly still, his being suspended above the abyss by that fine, diaphanous netting which holds the universe together. His ears are filled with the sibilant hum of hyperspace, and he closes his eyes against the flashing of impossibly-colored lights- But, no. He has no eyes, no ears. He struggles to draw breath, but he has no lungs. His body is far away.

 

There is a mounting high-pitched whine, a painful prickling in his not-skin, a sudden sense of wild acceleration, until all at once everything ceases in an explosion of black light.

 

He blinks, to clear the stardust from his eyes. He is himself again, or at least he is some version of himself. He holds his buzzing saber aloft, ready to strike, as he has so many times before. But this time, his hands are trembling. No, these are not his hands. Or rather, they _are_ his hands, but strangely drawn and withered.

 

A towering thing as black as space itself approaches him, brandishing its own pale-red blade, its hard, glossy, insectoid visage unreadable. A constant, regular whooshing sound issues from within it as it lumbers forward, at once utterly imposing and somehow weirdly pathetic. _Who would build such an awful droid?_ he wonders. But it isn't a droid. There is something within the plasteel shell, something which throbs with the Force, with _life_. The thing is speaking, he realizes, its synthetic voice low and resonant.

 

“When I left you, I was but the learner. Now _I_ am the master,” it says petulantly, almost... _boyishly_.

 

The thing carefully inclines its monstrous head, but he can feel it shuddering inside with cold fury. Its Force-presence washes over him, dragging him down like the vicious undertow of some alien sea, darkly unfathomable, and yet so uncannily reminiscent of...

 

_Could it be...?_

 

He feels the sting of the creature's blade, feels his soul leaving his body, but then, as suddenly as it began, the moment is over and the scene has changed.

 

A young man is standing over him now, dressed all in white. Once again, he is himself, and yet not himself. The young man sits down beside him, leans in eagerly. The way the grain-colored hair falls across the tanned face makes his weary old heart ache with fondness. He had thought himself beyond this sort of pain. He had thought he would never love anything like this ever again. But that familiar blue gaze is like taking a soldering element to his flesh...

 

“How did my father die?”

 

He takes a deep breath, rehearsing his story. He wonders who he is protecting from the truth: the boy or himself?

 

The scene changes again. This time he is alone.

 

Nighttime in the desert is cold. The sky is an endless blazing violet field. There is nothing but gently rolling dunes as far as the eye can see. The raw air rushes around him, stinging his exposed arms and face. His body is back to its familiar self again, except that it seems to be convulsing with sobs. He has maintained his composure up until this point, quietly shepherding the child to safety, handing it off to its relatives. But now, with that duty fulfilled, there is nothing left to distract his mind from the vast, empty future that yawns before him. He falls to his knees, plunging his hands into the cool sand. The wind picks up and he his tasting sand, inhaling sand.

 

There is nothing left of him but grief.

 

The final scene is like a culmination of all the others. It is the end, and also the beginning. Again, he finds himself with saber drawn, poised to strike. Again, the young man stands before him. But no, it is a _different_ young man. A different boy, with the same flashing blue gaze. Again, he feels his body trembling, practically choking with sorrow.

 

The boy is raving madly, almost drunkenly. He is standing on a sooty basalt shore before a glowing sea of liquid rock. Everything around them is bubbling and bursting. The boy leaps at him, and he swings his saber upwards in an arc above his head, and then his senses are filled with screaming and burning, until there is nothing left in the entire world but this screaming and burning.

 

His eyes are stinging with smoke, and then all of a sudden there is no smoke, and his eyes are stinging with tears. He is back in his real body, in his real kitchenette, in his real apartment, on real Coruscant. It is still early in the morning, and he is still seated at the table, his tea machine still softly beeping to signal a ready brew. Apparently just as real as anything else, a certain pale-blue ghost still hovers over him, expectantly. Obi Wan Kenobi takes a moment to compose himself before finally speaking:

 

“What was that? Why did you show it to me?”

 

“You already know the answer, my dear padawan.”

 

“But it isn't- It can't be... the _future_.”

 

“It is.”

 

“N-no,” he swallows thickly, tears rolling down his face. “No, there has to be some way-”

 

“Oh, there _is_ a way.” The image of Qui Gon Jinn seems to flicker in and out of existence for a moment before continuing gravely: “That is exactly why I am here. To show you a way.”

 

Obi Wan bows his head, momentarily struggling, before successfully schooling his expression into one of Jedi-serenity: “What must I do, Master?”

 

“You must decline the mission to hunt down General Grievous. Let Master Windu go in your stead. You must remain here on Coruscant.”

 

“With Anakin.”

 

“Precisely.”

 

“But how-” he takes a shuddering breath, fighting down a fresh wave of tears. “How can I prevent him from-”

 

The image of Qui Gon smiles, laying a translucent blue hand on Obi Wan's shoulder. The phantom-touch is comforting, but strange. “Take your morning tea. It will make you feel better. Then I will explain.”

 

“But Master-!”

 

“You must help yourself, before you can help Anakin.”

 

Obi Wan closes his eyes and nods in acquiescence. He takes the silver cup between his hands and tilts its steaming contents against his trembling lips. He realizes, as soon as the hot tea slides down his throat, that his insides have gone cold. Apparently satisfied, the image of Qui Gon continues:

 

“Now, my apprentice: Do you remember our voyage to Tython when you were just a boy?”

 

_They were slashing through the dense tangle of foliage, the buzzing of the local insects rivaling the humming of their sabers, when suddenly they came upon a clearing in the woods. As they stepped out into the brightly star-lit meadow, the soft red grasses swayed around them, and the warm breezes buffeted them, and they caught the lush perfume of the great, abounding, carnivorous flowers. Under a network of wine-colored vines, a hulking stone structure rose up out of the ground. Qui Gon wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, and contemplated the ancient temple's crumbling steps._

 

“Yes, Master. I remember. We were sent there to investigate a disturbance.”

 

“And do you remember what we found?”

 

_In the center of the chamber, atop an onyx plinth, sat a golden dodecahedron. No bigger than a hand-fruit, it had shown like a beacon in the Force all the way from space. It was a holocron; a record of ancient knowledge. Even beneath centuries of dust it gleamed like the crystal-honey of Kashyyyk. Master and apprentice shared a silent look of wonder._

 

“It was... a holocron, I think. But I never learned what was in it.”

 

“That's because the Council confiscated it as soon as I presented it to them. They deemed it too dangerous to even _study_ , much less make use of. It was deactivated and buried in the restricted section of the archives. By now, only the most senior members of the Council would even remember its existence.”

 

“Then no one knows its contents?”

 

“No one living,” the image of Qui Gon smiles. “But being one with the Force affords _me_ a rather different vantage point. In death, I have learned things the Council does not know. Things which I unfortunately cannot share with you.”

 

“But what of Anakin-?”

 

“This is an extraordinary case. That is why I am here. I may not be able to intervene again, so listen carefully. I am about to ask... far too much of you. I hope you will be able to forgive me.”

 

“Nothing you ask of me could be too much, Master.” Obi Wan steels himself, clutching the warm silver cup with both hands. “And no fate could be worse than what you have revealed to me.”

 

“If you are willing to risk it,” the image of Qui Gon nods to itself, pensively rubbing its beard, “then this is what you must do: Take Anakin down with you into the restricted section of the archives. Find the Tython holocron and open it. It is important that you open it while in his presence.”

 

“Open it? In brazen defiance of the Council's orders?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But, _Master_ -”

 

“Know this, Obi Wan: The future you have witnessed is one in which you obey the Council's orders to the letter. Avoiding it may require you to take extraordinary measures. To do things you may have considered impossible. I could not be more proud of you. You are a paragon among the Jedi. But now, I am asking you to become something other, something _more_ than that. The holocron is your best hope.”

 

“But what _is_ it, exactly?”

 

“It is a path to power. Power enough to preserve the Republic and destroy the Sith. The kind of power which few can understand or control.”

 

“And that,” Obi Wan sags his shoulders in glum comprehension, “is why the Council forbid its opening.”

 

“Indeed. It could easily destroy a lesser being. But in your hands,” the image of Qui Gon is suddenly, uncharacteristically fervent, “In your hands, Obi Wan, I believe it can save the galaxy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love ghost Qui Gon. He's the definition of _deus ex machina_.


	2. Chapter 2

The walk down the empty, ill-lit corridor towards his former-padawan's quarters is the longest walk of Obi Wan Kenobi's life. He can feel Anakin's restless presence reverberating through the hallways of the temple; The young man is clearly not only awake, but extremely agitated.

 

Halting in front of the door, he wonders for a moment at what he is about to do. He never thought it would come to this. His nerves are prickling, his heart rate varying strangely. Suddenly, he is besieged by vertigo: He sways on his feet, swallowing, swallowing again, waiting for his head to clear, stopping. He really ought to turn back, to seek the advice of the Council in this... But, no. The Force has brought him to this place and time, this conversation. He knocks once, hard, and waits.

 

“Master?” Anakin emerges, looking benumbed and pale, but too keyed-up to sleep. His hair is dull, his eyes blinking rapidly and too often, the muscles of this throat and jaw quivering feverishly.

 

“Good morning, Anakin.”

 

“It's a little bit early for... What is it?”

 

“Can I come in? We need to talk.”

 

“Yeah,” says Anakin, vaguely. He half-stumbles backwards into the room, and begins hastily to clear the debris associated with his habitation (sundry datapads and droid components) from a couple of chairs. “You can... sit...” he mutters. And Obi Wan does.

 

Master and apprentice, once inseparable, regard each other obscurely, as if for the first time. The silence stretches into awkwardness, and then beyond awkwardness into surrealness. Anakin is the first to speak, reaching as he does so across their psychic bond and giving it a hesitant tug, as if to make sure it still exists. Obi Wan flinches at this mental touch, before returning it stiffly. It has been months since either of them has so much as acknowledged the shimmering thread which links their souls together.

 

“Before you start, I want to apologize, Master, for my.... recent behavior,” Anakin says, failing to meet the older man's eye. He pauses, fidgeting in his seat, and continues in that impossible Anakin-way, somehow managing to sound both contrite and bitter at the same time: “I know I've been difficult lately. I was going to say this when I saw you off to Utapau, but now that you're here I might as well-”

 

“I won't be going to Utapau.”

 

“What? Why not?” asks Anakin, his blue gaze lifting in surprise.

 

“I realized I would be needed here.”

 

“Then the Council _is_ sending me after all!” he snarls, his expression suddenly darkening. “Why wasn't I called before them? Why would they insult me by sending _you_ to my quarters to-”

 

“No. This has nothing to do with the Council. I am not here as their agent. I am here as your friend. And neither of us will be going to Utapau,” says Obi Wan, a measure more harshly than he means to. He gropes for his patience, but Anakin's abrupt crackle of fury has riven the air between them, causing his own emotions to burn uncomfortably hot. When did his padawan become such a stranger to him? When did the charming boy he trained become so hostile, defensive, paranoid, and quick to anger? For a moment, the specter of his own grief (a grief he has yet to experience, caused by things which have yet to occur) tears at him.

 

And then, all at once, the enormity of his task, the realization that the future he has glimpsed might actually come to pass, closes around his mind, smothering him. He regards Anakin, his dark-gold hair and star-tanned skin, and suddenly his youth and beauty appear monstrous. Everything Obi Wan has, everything he has ever known, is threatened by this fractious boy. And he wants to seize him by the shoulders and shake him, shake some sense into him, and shout in his face, _How could you? I loved you!_ again and again until his voice fails him and they both collapse, weeping. But instead:

 

“Is there something you want to tell me, Anakin?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Is there anything... troubling you? Anything I might be able to help you with?”

 

“Not at all, Master. Aside from the usual... _tensions_ between myself and certain members of the Council-”

 

“Stars and stones, Anakin! Don't lie to me!” Obi Wan seldom raises his voice. This means the situation is extremely serious.

 

“What's wrong, Master?” Anakin frowns. He leans in, pulling urgently at their bond, raking through its silky strands in search of answers. “You are... in pain.” He draws a marked breath, releasing it in a frantic tumble of words: “Because of me, somehow! You are in pain because of me...? Master, I don't understand-”

 

“Listen! Listen to me for once!” Obi Wan snaps. “I do not know how or why, but I have reason to believe that you may be in danger of- of...” But he cannot make his lips form the words _falling to the Dark Side_. He turns away, swallowing down tears again. Remembering Qui Gon's instructions, remembering what he must do, he grasps at their bond and begins nervously, haltingly, to stroke Anakin's mind as he hasn't done since the latter was a little boy. He is terribly out of practice- not that he was ever very good at this sort of thing to begin with. He admonishes himself to focus, reaching out again, in what he hopes is a comforting manner. He allows the outer layers of shielding to fall away from his mind, silently inviting Anakin to do the same, and the young man inclines his head in disbelief, before eagerly obliging him. There is no time to waste wondering where he went wrong, whether he loved Anakin too much, or not enough. He has vacillated about this for years, and now the choice is made for him. He must subdue his inhibitions, move past his doubts, and offer himself wholly to this- this _monster god spirit man child_ before it is too late.

 

“I have allowed matters to get out of hand,” Obi Wan sighs, sounding far more composed than he feels. “I knew you were having difficulties, but I never confronted you about them. You are an adult now, after all. Had you approached me, I would of course have done everything in my power to help you. But I thought it appropriate-”

 

And then it strikes him like a blaster bolt, full in the chest. Of course. It's her. Somehow, it's all about _her_. The Force prods sharply at him, confirming this insight, urging him in this direction. He should have known. He feels a bit like laughing, and a lot like crying, but he is far too sensible to do either. Of all the things in the galaxy-!

 

“Anakin,” he says, carefully. “I know about you and Senator Amidala.”

 

And at this, his former-padawan's mind, so brittle with fear, splinters.

 

Anakin is on his feet now, retreating, muscles ready, but there is nowhere to go in his narrow quarters. His eyes are huge with terror, his lips working madly. “You- _How_ -?!”

 

Obi Wan has to physically brace himself against the deluge of panic which comes crashing over their newly reopened bond. “Anakin, _please_ -” he ventures. How readily the boy's dazzling features turn demented and horrible! Can it really be that he's never noticed it before?

 

“N-No! You won't lecture me about this! I won't have it!”

 

“I only want to help you-”

 

“I don't-!” He is shouting now, but stammeringly, abortively, practically choking on his own wildly escalating voice. “I don't need your help-! I don't want-! There is nothing you can-!”

 

“Stop it! It's hardly dawn! You'll wake the whole Order!”

 

“M-might as well now!” he laughs hysterically, his cheeks flushed-red and sparkling with tears. “I suppose you've already told them? Or are you going to drag me in front of them first, so that you can humiliate me, on top of everything else?!”

 

“I haven't told the Council, and I don't plan to.”

 

“That's not-! I don't believe you!” he practically shrieks.

 

“I have known, or at least suspected, for quite some time, and I haven't said a word to anyone.”

 

A tirade dies in Anakin's throat. “ _What?_ ” he rasps incredulously. “How long?!”

 

“For over a year now. You never hid it very well.”

 

“Oh,” he says, crumpling back into his chair. He turns his whole body away, carrying himself gingerly, as though he's just been beaten. Several seconds pass in edgy stillness before he speaks again, quietly, without meeting Obi Wan's eye. “But _why_ haven't you...? I've violated the code, and...”

 

“And we are at war! There are far greater things at stake than your affair with Senator Amidala!”

 

“It's not an affair! We are _married_.”

 

“Married?! What do you mean you're married?”

 

“We held a secret ceremony just after Geonosis. It wasn't legal, exactly, but _spiritually_ -” he gestures vaguely with his mechanical hand. “In any case,we are about to have a child.”

 

“A child!” says Obi Wan, rubbing his beard. “That _does_ complicate matters somewhat.”

 

“You're telling _me_ it does!”

 

“Listen,” he breathes, sending all the warmth and reassurance he can reasonably muster across their bond. “I am going to help you through this. We are not going to lose our heads. We are going to find a solution which is fair to everyone. We are Jedi. That is what we do.”

 

Devastated, Anakin drags both hands through his tangled hair. “All this time-!” he moans. “All this time, I could have told you, and you would have helped me?!” His force-presence is purling and roiling. “But I thought-”

 

“You thought I'd just automatically report you to the Council? Without regard to the circumstances? Without considering your feelings? Or Senator Amidala's? Is that what you thought? I'm not a _droid_ , Anakin.”

 

“Oh, no?” he says, smiling even as tears continue to stream down his face. “I sometimes wonder...”

 

And for a moment, Obi Wan thinks they are out of the asteroid belt. But he is gravely mistaken.

 

Without warning, Anakin's heavier body is slammed against his own with bruising force, sobbing convulsively, and grasping at him as though drowning. “There's nothing-! None of it matters-! _She's dying!_ ”

 

“What are you... talking about?” Obi Wan gasps, the crushing pressure on his abdomen rendering speech difficult.

 

“A portentous dream. Like the one about my mother. Every night, the same! I haven't slept for days because of it! Padmé, s-she dies in childbirth,” he chokes.

 

“Oh, _Anakin_ ,” Obi Wan sighs, wrapping his arms around the young man.

 

“And now here _you_ are, being so good to me. And that almost makes it w-worse. Because you're g-going to hate me!”

 

“Hate you? I could never hate you.”

 

“Oh, but you will. Because of what I'm considering doing.”

 

Obi Wan stiffens. The Force seems to whirl or pivot around them, and all of a sudden, he can feel the dark element thrumming in that heart which is pressed so close against his own. With silent, creeping horror, he realizes that Anakin's fall has already begun.

 

“Explain,” he demands, pulling away from the strangling embrace. He struggles, with mixed-success, to keep his voice steady. “Explain everything to me, right now.”

 

“Master, I can't-!”

 

“ _Right now_ , Anakin.”

 

The boy regards him soberly, making an effort to arrest his miserable weeping before speaking again. “Alright. But you have to promise me something first, Master. You have to promise you won't hate me.”

 

“There is _nothing_ you could do to make me hate you,” Obi Wan avers. But even as he is saying this, he is beginning to doubt whether it is true.

 

Anakin sighs ruefully. Then, at last: “Chancellor Palpatine... is a Dark Lord of the Sith.”

 

“ _What?!_ ”

 

“He all but told me so. He offered me-” he begins to rock back and forth, utterly tormented. “A way to save Padmé. By using the- the Dark Side of the Force.”

 

Obi Wan brings a hand to his face in abject woe. “Anakin,” he whispers, “please tell me you aren't actually thinking of-”

 

“But I am!” he cries. “I _have_ to save her! And the Jedi can't help me, or won't! I sought Master Yoda's guidance and he told me... He told me to _let her die_! And the Chancellor, he- He may be a Sith Lord, but I'm starting to think he might be right about the Council!”

 

“Do you hear yourself, Anakin? What in the nine hells-?”

 

“I know it's wrong, Master, but I- I don't care! I can't live without her! And only he can save her-”

 

“How do you know?!” Obi Wan practically yells, “What if he is lying to you? What if you give yourself to the Dark Side and she dies all the same! It will have been for nothing!”

 

“N-no!” Anakin is back at full volume. “That won't happen! I won't let it!”

 

“It _will_ happen.”

 

“How do _you_ know-?”

 

“Because I've seen it.” Obi Wan's voice is a broken string. “I've seen the future. I've seen _you_. And you are...” _a monster_ “alone.”

 

“Then she is- what? - _destined_ to die? I can't accept that. I have to do _something_ -!”

 

“I may know of... a way.”

 

Anakin stops cold. “If the Jedi had a way,” he grinds out, “why wouldn't Master Yoda have shown me when I went to him?”

 

“Because... it is forbidden.”

 

“And yet _you_ are willing to show me?”

 

“Yes.” Obi Wan slumps his shoulders, physically and spiritually exhausted. “There are methods of attaining power which do not require... any sort of capitulation to the Sith. What I am suggesting is _beyond_ dangerous, but-”

 

“Are you saying...” Anakin is leaning in again, and psychically nudging him. “Are you saying there is way we could become as powerful in the Light Side... as _he_ is in the Dark Side?”

 

“Yes...”

 

“And the Council forbids it? Then they really are fools,” the boy laughs, bitterly. And the very next instant, he is earnest and hopeful. “But you're not a fool, Master. You are truly willing to defy them? F-for me?”

 

“I have come to see... the folly of obeying them implicitly.”

 

Not a moment ago, Anakin was a sobbing wreck. Now he is restless, elated, practically glowing. “You truly are my master,” he says reverently, with a flush that makes his eyes seem, momentarily, even bluer. “I'm so sorry. I thought the worst of you. Please forgive me.”

 

“Of course,” says Obi Wan, smiling weakly. His former-padawan has violated the code to be sure, but he has done nothing which cannot be forgiven. Not yet.

 

“These past few months I've been... so confused,” Anakin frowns. “The Council ordered me to spy on the Chancellor, and the Chancellor wanted me to spy on the Council, and I didn't know who to obey. It was impossible!”

 

“The Chancellor asked you to-?”

 

“Yes! Oh, but none of that matters now!” Anakin cants his whole body forward in obvious relief. “Because it is _you_ I am meant to follow,” he pronounces, in a cosmic hush.

 

“Anakin-”

 

“Not the Council _or_ the Chancellor. It is _you_. It always has been. I see that now. I was just a little boy when first I pledged myself to your teachings. I didn't appreciate what it meant back then. But now...” He forsakes his chair, kneeling on the floor before Obi Wan, as if expecting to be knighted-anew by the latter's blade. “Now I pledge myself to you again. And truly this time.” He is freshly weeping, but with joy. “Oh, _Master_. I am so glad! I am so glad it is _you_ , and not _him_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the scene in Palpatine's office when Anakin is dubbed Darth Vader, with the part of Palpatine being played here by Obi Wan. The most immediately pressing issue in _Revenge of the Sith_ is that Anakin pledges his loyalty to an evil space-wizard, but the underlying problems are his lack of self-knowledge and integrity, and his inability to make his own decisions. So will pledging his loyalty to the kindest, gentlest wizard in the land solve all his problems? Stick around and find out.


	3. Chapter 3

Obi Wan Kenobi is an ascetic among ascetics; There are few members of the Jedi Order who rise as early in the morning as he does. As a consequence, the archives are all but deserted when he and Anakin arrive.

 

A senior-padawan mans the reference desk, hunched over a steaming cup of caf. She checks them into the central computer with a respectful nod at Master Kenobi, and a bashful smile at his eminently beautiful companion.

 

The familiar chamber has never seemed so coldly monumental. They walk in silence, their many-layered vestments fluttering around their powerful bodies. They are servants of the Force; instruments of destiny. Obi Wan closes his eyes, momentarily overwhelmed with religious feeling.

 

Only an hour earlier, he had despaired of even being able to influence his defiant former-padawan. But now, true to Anakin's tearful avowal of devotion, the young man seems willing to follow him to the ends of the galaxy and beyond. He is veritably _clinging_ to his master's presence, drinking deeply of their psychic bond in a way that makes Obi Wan feel both uncomfortable and weirdly giddy. They have been drifting apart for some time now. This sudden, unparalleled closeness between them is... well, it's certainly _unexpected_.

 

The corridor which contains the entrance to the restricted section of the archives is walled with black granite, and lit from bellow by recessed, pale-green diodes. Accessing the heavily shielded part of his mind which contains the Council's secrets, Obi Wan raises a hand before a seemingly random region of wall. Anakin looks puzzled, before taking a step back in recognition. He has heard of, but never actually seen this sort of locking mechanism. Only an advanced Force-user, who has memorized a lengthy series of numerical access-codes can open it. There is no keypad or visual interface; The information must be transmitted into the computer directly out of one's mind.

 

After about ninety seconds, a great section of granite sinks into the floor, revealing a cylindrical turbolift of translucent green glass. The pair of Jedi enter together, the small space amplifying their psychic, as well as physical proximity. Anxiety shivers across their bond, and for once it is not clear whose.

 

“Master,” says Anakin softly, “what exactly are we looking for?”

 

“An ancient artifact. Discovered by Master Qui Gon and myself, over twenty years ago.”

 

“And you know where to find it now?”

 

“Not exactly. But I think... his spirit guides me,” says Obi Wan obscurely.

 

“His _spirit_ -?”

 

With a gentle ding, the turbolift comes to a halt, and both men step out into a small, hexagonal antechamber. In the center of the polished, malachite floor stand a pair of green sofas and a dark-wood tea-table. It looks, Anakin thinks, like an unnecessarily posh waiting room. Across from them, on the opposite wall, a pneumatic door slides open to reveal a long, narrow hallway, densely lined with durasteel filing drawers.

 

“Wait a minute,” Anakin says. “I've heard of this place. Isn't this where they keep... the Sith holocrons?”

 

“Among other things,” affirms Obi Wan gravely.

 

“And Ferus Olin said it didn't exist!”

 

He moves to cross the room, but stops, looking circumspectly over his shoulder. “Perhaps it would be best,” he ventures, “if you stayed out here for a moment.”

 

And Anakin, to his complete and utter astonishment, merely nods “Yes, Master,” and sits down on one of the sofas, without even sounding particularly miffed. The boy has resolved, it seems, to make a serious effort at obedience for which, Obi Wan feels like remarking, it is rather late in the game. Wondering at this, the Master Jedi disappears behind the pneumatic door with a swish of his cloak.

 

The vault is floored with transparisteel panels over florescent tubes which provide the only illumination. As he drifts along, lightly running his fingers over the numbered drawer-faces, Obi Wan is suddenly made acutely aware of his own breathing. Even deactivated and stored in Force-suppressing cases, Sith holocrons still resonate with the unmistakable low hum of the Dark Side. Their cold nearness presses at him, trying to seep into his skin, but he allows them no point of entry. The wonderful, living warmth of his own body fills his senses, repelling all maleficent energies.

 

He is betraying the will of the Council, and for reasons he doesn't even fully understand. Under normal circumstances, he would be beset by guilt and fear, but somehow he feels utterly serene and sure of his mission, of, dare he presume to label it, _the will of the Force_. Qui Gon's spirit indeed guides him.

 

About three quarters of the way down the corridor at roughly elbow-level, his seeking hand halts above one of the drawers. Here. Yes. It's contents call to him. He pulls it open gingerly, and even more gingerly, withdraws a small black box, about ten centimeters in every dimension, and quite heavy for its size. He cradles it against his breast and, as if in response, it throbs warmly. In all that had transpired since, he had quite forgotten about the voyage to Tython, and about his and Qui Gon's strange discovery. Now the mysterious object seems to welcome him back, forgiving him for his twenty-year lapse, like an affectionate old friend.

 

Pleasantly dazed, he steps back out into the antechamber to find Anakin still seated on one of the sofas in obvious suspense. He lowers himself onto the one opposite, placing the box in the center of the low tea-table between them. Both men lean forward, sharing a portentous look.

 

“Is that-?” Anakin bites his lip.

 

“Yes. I am quite certain of it.”

 

“But what... _is_ it?”

 

Obi Wan sighs ruminantly. “You know, Anakin,” he says, with a kind of distant fondness, “my master was something of a heretic.”

 

Anakin nods cautiously. He has always understood some version of this to be the case.

 

“He didn't exactly,” Obi Wan continues, “ _hold_ with certain aspects of the code. He believed that compassion, and love, were the true designs of the universe.” It occurs to him that he and his former-padawan have never really had this conversation. In fact, in all their years together, there are _many_ important conversations they have never had. Despite beginning their training relationship under rather dubious circumstances, they had ultimately grown very close, and yet, Obi Wan reflects, if he is being truly honest with himself, he had always shielded something from the boy, some vital core. He wonders, with a horrible, plummeting feeling, if perhaps he could have avoided some of their current troubles, if only he'd been more attentive to Anakin's need for a certain kind of intimacy. But that phantom-grief will drown him if he dwells on such things, so instead:

 

“Master Qui Gon and I came across this,” he picks up the box with one hand, holding it appraisingly before his face, “in the Red Jungle of Tython.” With a subtle manipulation of the Force, he breaks the seal on the container and levitates the article within so that it is suspended above the table between them. The golden dodecahedron, adorned with indecipherable glyphs on each of its pentagonal faces, has a kind of terrifying inexplicable magnetism, which makes him both eager and hesitant to touch it. Anakin leans in unconsciously, totally riveted.

 

“Is it... a holocron? It doesn't look like any holocron I've ever seen.”

 

“Well it _is_ quite old, I believe.”

 

“And you think whatever is on it,” Anakin urges, “can save Padmé?”

 

“Yes, I do think so.”

 

“And... what about the Chancellor?”

 

“I don't know. But I feel that we are... on the right path.”

 

For a moment, Anakin looks past the revolving golden object, and into his master's keen, grey eyes. Here they are, in this tiny secret chamber, many stories beneath the surface of Coruscant, at the very center of a vast, dangerous galaxy, entire star systems pivoting around their bodies. No matter what happens down here, they will ascend again into the open, and face whatever peril confronts them, together. This, he thinks, finally, is what it means to be a Jedi.

 

“So... how do you open it?” he asks, attempting not to sound too impatient.

 

“I'm not sure. But in any case, there are a few things we ought to discuss before we even try.”

 

“Yes, Master.”

 

Obi Wan raises an eyebrow at this, but continues without comment: “The way Qui Gon explained it to me, there is a technique by means of which the power of the Force can be drawn, not from within an individual, but from the fabric of the Force _between_ individuals; That is to say, from the psychic bonds between Force-sensitives. The numinal material of these bonds is a structure greater than the sum of its parts. In the normal course of things, they are forged and broken between individuals without any damage to the fabric itself, but if the fabric itself were to be disturbed-”

 

“Like splitting an atom.”

 

“Somewhat, yes. The trick is to do this in a controlled, localized manner.”

 

“And the holocron will explain how?”

 

“If indeed it is a holocron. On close inspection, I'm beginning to think it might be something else entirely...” He looks up sharply. “Master Qui Gon said it would only work if our bond was strong enough. That means you're going to have to trust me. I know we've had our difficulties lately-”

 

“Of course I trust you, Master,” Anakin smiles a strange, sad smile. “Do you trust me?”

 

“With my life, Anakin.”

 

“Oh, sure. But with this?”

 

Obi Wan is briefly at a loss for how to respond. Is the boy challenging him somehow? Or is he perhaps experiencing a rare moment of self-awareness?

 

“Yes,” he affirms. “I trust you.”

 

“Well then,” Anakin grins, reaching for the still-floating dodecahedron. “Let's figure this thing out.”

 

“Anakin, wait-” Obi Wan grasps at it unthinkingly, as if to stop him.

 

He doesn't know exactly what he's trying to accomplish in reaching for it, and he doesn't have much time to think about it, because the moment both their hands are touching the object, all of his physical senses are blotted out by an explosion of golden light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is every hallway lit from below? The same reason there are no safety railings on anything. Architects in the Star Wars universe privilege atmosphere above practicality every time.


	4. Chapter 4

When Obi Wan first opens his eyes, it looks for moment as if the polished stone floor beneath him is rippling like water. The high-shine, deep-green malachite is banded with concentric circles, like the surface of a pond in a gentle rain. Blinking away the blear, he slowly becomes aware of his own horizontal orientation. He is lying, it seems, on a sofa, though he can't for the life of him think why. He feels strange all over, if pleasantly so. He waits for this sensory oddness to pass, and when it doesn't, he wonders if he is dreaming. Upon reflection, he suspects he is not. Everything seems real; but it feels so abidingly, viscerally _different_.

 

He reaches out with his Force-sense and is instantly swamped by a singular locus of blinding light. His first impulse is to recoil from it as if burned, but he finds he can't. The brilliant presence draws him in like a lodestar, demanding his attention. He heaves himself into a sitting position, and turns to see his former-padawan doing much the same thing on the opposite sofa.

 

“Anakin?”

 

“Master, what was-?”

 

Their eyes meet, and Obi Wan is momentarily transfixed. _Anakin_ is the light. His familiar presence burns through the Force more intensely than ever. He still feels of himself, and yet he is somehow elementally changed.

 

Obi Wan rubs at his eyes, unable to stop himself from swaying drunkenly. He notices the dodecahedron, still sitting on the table with dull metallic inertness, its golden hum silenced, its power apparently gone. Or no, not gone. Not gone at all. For perhaps it is the very same thing he now feels rushing underneath his own skin, resonating from deep within his body, and from within Anakin's body, and _between_ their bodies...

 

Anakin is looking at him strangely. He stands unsteadily and walks around the tea-table without breaking his gaze. His clothes are rumpled, his hair even messier than before, but this does nothing to detract from his wild beauty. He appears unreal, dæmon-like, lit from within. His eyes are a hot mineral-blue.

 

He reaches out with his flesh hand and begins haltingly to pet Obi Wan's hair and face.

 

“Anakin, what are you... doing?”

 

“I don't know...” His voice is thick with confusion and fear. “Master, I- I can't stop.”

 

Obi Wan moves to withdraw from the touch, but finds he can't. Finds himself leaning into it instead. The golden light has already seized possession of him, and now it is working its way into the meshes of his body, weaving its filigree strands into his muscles, gilding his bones. He reaches for his serenity, but there is no refuge to be had in the Force anymore, only this _unbearable bright warm honey pleasure_ -

 

The fine, translucent thread of their psychic link is pulling and raveling. And then somehow it is being dipped in hot gold, and the gold is braiding itself around the fishing-wire thread, and solidifying around it, enclosing it completely within a kind of metaphysical rope, and binding it there. Turning and raveling, until this heavy golden cord is rooted deep in both of their hearts. And there is an urgent tugging, and the cord is rapidly shortening, and suddenly their bodies are being drawn irresistibly together.

 

With a plaintive sigh, Anakin sinks down until he and his master are flush against each other, chest to chest. And then he is pressing his face into the join of Obi Wan's neck and shoulder, and nuzzling him, and keening helplessly. This is just so sudden, so total. The loss of control is terrifying, but this soul-deep comfort, this sense of completeness, is unlike anything he's ever felt before. As they wrap their arms around each other, he is reminded of embracing Obi Wan earlier in a fit of tears. This is almost exactly the same, and yet almost completely different.

 

“M-master, what is this?” he mutters. “What's... _happening_ to us?”

 

“I don't-” Obi Wan struggles, “I don't _know_ , Anakin, I can't-” He rubs his face against Anakin's hair, and he can tell the boy hasn't washed it recently. Stars are pounding behind his eyes. This simple contact feels so good he can't breathe.

 

There is a sense of drawing the light from each others' bodies, but neither of them is being drained, and both are being filled. The golden light is a parhelion between them, a throbbing rainbow, and both of them are drawing from it. There is a sense of charging like a battery, until their bodies are humming with power, and finally the process seems to complete itself, and the irresistible magnetism gradually ebbs, until at last they find they are free to pull away from each other.

 

Anakin rights himself and sits down on the sofa beside Obi Wan. The latter has his head back, eyes closed, features scrunched in pain. A long moment passes as they catch their breath. The golden chain still links them. It has loosened, for the moment at least, but it shows no indication of letting go.

 

“That was... weird. But no harm done, huh?” Anakin's attempt at levity is somewhat undermined by the fact that his voice is shaking with fear. “Are you alright, Master?” he frowns.

 

“Fine,” Obi Wan rasps, without opening his eyes.

 

“You certainly don't sound fine.”

 

“I shall... _return_ to myself, in a moment.” He sits up straight, running both hands through his hair, and finally turns to look at his companion. “Anakin, that was-” he falters. “I don't know what that was. But I don't think it's over.”

 

“No, you're right,” Anakin breathes. “Something has happened to us. Everything feels-”

 

“Yes? How would you characterize it?”

 

“That's just it. Everything... _feels_.”

 

He kneels on the floor before the low tea-table and carefully takes the dodecahedron in both of his hands, and turns it over and over, diagnostically. Its weight surprises him; before, it had somehow struck him as buoyant. But now the glowing glyphs on its pentagonal faces have gone dark, and it's just a brassy lump in his lap about the size of a Varykino pear.

 

“Well, one thing is for sure,” he says, with a nervous smile in his voice.

 

“Oh? And what's that?” Obi Wan sighs.

 

“It definitely wasn't a holocron.”

 

“I think that hypothesis can be safely eliminated, yes.”

 

It occurs to Anakin that they are both being decidedly, perhaps unreasonably, calm about all this. He hugs himself, counting off a few deliberate breaths. His very nature has apparently been altered in some way which he does not yet understand, by some arcane power the providence of which he does not know. And yet, his master's presence is so warm and soothing that he can't quite bring himself to be properly upset. He considers that the ability to psychologically accept the change may in fact be _part_ of the change, and for some reason this in particular gives him pause...

 

Obi Wan pulls his comlink out of his pocket to check the time. He is about to suggest that they discuss this further over some breakfast, but he stops short. “That's... strange,” he frowns.

 

“What?”

 

“It's the middle of the afternoon. We must have slept for over nine standard hours.”

 

“Really? Well that's-” But Anakin freezes, mid-sentence. “Master!” Still kneeling, he twists himself around to look up at Obi Wan in wonder. “Master, I didn't have the dream this time!”

 

“The dream?”

 

In an instant, he is on his feet, pacing the room excitedly. “The dream where Padmé- For months, I haven't been able to sleep without seeing-” He stops, turning on his heel. “Do you know what this means?”

 

Obi Wan stands up from the sofa, concerned. “Anakin, are you-?”

 

“This means it worked! Whatever we just did, worked. It gave us the power to save her. It's almost as if we've already saved her. We've _changed_ the future.”

 

“Anakin,” Obi Wan takes a step forward. “We don't even know what this- _power_ is yet.”

 

“But we'll figure it out! You said it yourself, Master: we are on the right path.” Anakin is glowing again, even more radiantly than before, thanks to that strange light which now resides within him. The young man's emotions are pitched crazily upwards, and Obi Wan, to his dismay, finds he is now unable to withdraw from them as he normally would. The golden braid holds him fast, actually _forcing_ his own heart to quicken with Anakin's wild elation.

 

“We've got to go find her,” the boy is raving. “I've got to see her! I've got to tell her that... that everything is going to be alright!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm not sure this qualifies as slash. It's more like feelings-porn.) 
> 
> Anyway, it looks like Anakin and Obi Wan have cast some weird ancient space-magic on themselves, which seems like it might make it kind of hard for them to hurt each other. So, are things _still_ headed to Mustafar in a hand-basket? Stick around and find out.


	5. Chapter 5

The journey up from the vault and back through the archives feels eerily rote, like playing the same holovid again in reverse. Except that it's not the same, not really. It is now the middle of the afternoon, and the main library is filled with padawans of varying ages quietly studying. The familiar scene sounds a note of pain in Obi Wan's heart. This, _all_ of this, is fundamentally threatened. But the true nature and extent of the threat remains largely unknown. He can feel the magnitude of the task before him, but he cannot think where to begin. He imagines himself standing before the Council now, trying to explain the situation. What would he even say to them? There are no words for this dread...

 

He rushed to Anakin's quarters this morning without much of a plan. In his desperation, he had regarded the boy much as one would regard a thermal detonator; The only thing that had seemed to matter was getting to him before it was too late. Now he has Anakin with him, safe and sound and apparently willing to listen to reason, and yet he _still_ doesn't have much of a plan.

 

This won't do at all, he berates himself. He can't afford this fluttering irresolution, not when the fate of the galaxy hangs in the balance. They must do something! But they _have_ done something, he reminds himself. Something terrifying, something extraordinary, something neither of them understands.

 

Eventually, they find themselves out on the streets of Coruscant once again, like so many times before. Obi Wan breathes gratefully, absorbing the hum of life around them. His connection to the Force has been subtly altered but, thank the stars, in no way diminished, at least not as far as he can tell. And what's more, all of his physical senses seem bigger, brighter, somehow _better_. A regulation ten-minute light-rain commences, but only a few cool drops make it through the dense canopy of speeders overhead to gently patter their flushed faces.

 

Obi Wan feels the world flip like a pancake, and be, again, different. He is hyper-aware of Anakin moving at his side, even as he takes in their surroundings. As they travel together, in tandem, everything is a warm blur. It is not clear who is following whom; perhaps they are following each other.

 

Though he knows this part of the city-planet like he knows his own name, Obi Wan is beginning to feel increasingly lost. There is a sense of confusion, of rising anxiety, of strange dissociation from himself. He feels excited, desperate, angry at nothing, drawn in a hundred different directions at once. His own thoughts and emotions seem opaque, foreign, _random_ even. What has become of the surety, serenity, and unity of purpose by which he has lived his entire adult life? This volatility is so unlike him-

 

Because, he realizes suddenly, it _isn't_ him. These are Anakin's feelings. This churning restlessness, this sense of incompleteness, this inability to separate himself from the immediacy of experience- This must be what it feels like to be Anakin Skywalker. The revelation stops Obi Wan in his tracks: This must be what it feels like to be Anakin Skywalker, _all the time_.

 

“Master...?” Anakin turns, wondering why they've halted in the middle of the bustling plaza. The muscles of his throat and jaw are quivering, his eyes darting around impatiently. “We have to find Padmé. We have to go-”

 

Obi Wan closes his eyes against a frisson of panic which does not belong to him. It will not do at all for both of them to be so afraid. He catches his former-padawan by the arm and speaks softly, deliberately, holding the young man's gaze. “Anakin,” he says, “Listen.” His own voice sounds strange to him. There is a sort of golden echo underneath it, reminiscent of Force-suggestion. He doesn't think it's possible to perform a mind-trick without meaning to. He certainly hopes it isn't, because whatever this is, it doesn't seem like he can turn it off.

 

“There is no reason to think Senator Amidala is in any immediate danger,” he continues. “Right now, we are going to go somewhere, we are going to get something to eat, and we are going to discuss this. We are not going to do _anything_ until after we have discussed this.”

 

Anakin is turning these words over and over, his emotions caught in a confused spiral. He keeps opening his mouth as if to say something, and then closing it again. Obi Wan scrubs at his beard, grasping for his center, desperately trying to think through the sweeping vertigo that threatens to overwhelm him. This thing, this weird unparalleled _link_ between them, it must go both ways. Mustn’t it? It only seems logical- Only seems _fair_.

 

He tugs at the golden rope, gently but firmly demanding ingress. Just as he is now unable to defend against Anakin, Anakin is equally unable to defend against him. He enters the boy's mind, projecting patience, discipline, equanimity. He offers up all that is within himself. _This is what it feels like to be Obi Wan Kenobi_.

 

Anakin is swaying on his feet, breathing shortly, blinking rapidly, and then, all at once, he is still. His gaze lifts in comprehension as he is filled with feelings which are not his own: Feelings of calm, and confidence, and wholeness. As this tiny, jewel-like moment elapses between them, things about his master which have always baffled him are suddenly made clear. Their many years together seem to flash before him in an instant, and he is replaying old conversations in his head, and finally understanding what they were about...

 

The artificial raindrops running down his face look somewhat cloudy and smell strongly chlorinated. Capital Maintenance should really do something about the formula they've been using. He nods slowly, meeting Obi Wan's pale-grey eyes, and allowing Obi Wan's calm to wash over him, weighing it, sampling it, rolling it around in his heart.

 

He has been so afraid- Even before the prophetic dreams began, for years really, he has been carrying this tangled red knot of fear around inside him. More and more he had begun to resent his master for demanding too much of him, for refusing to listen to him, for seeming to callously dismiss his feelings. But now he understands: Obi Wan has always cared about him, has always wanted to help, he's just never quite known how. Anakin smiles. Now that they are... connected like this, there can be no further misunderstandings between them. This is good, he thinks. They are on the right path.

 

Anakin reaches fondly back along the bright cord, showing his intention to cooperate. He allows his excitement to sparkle over it, without shattering the blanket of calm which Obi Wan has thrown over them. There is so much to discuss, now that they are no longer talking past each other. But not here, not in the middle of the street, he realizes. Borrowing his master's coolness and judiciousness, he resolves cooly and judiciously that his master is right: They really ought to go somewhere, and get something to eat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes may or may not be trippin' at this point.


	6. Chapter 6

"It wasn't just _what_ he said.” Anakin is leaning forward, trundling his open hands together in a gesture that struggles to convey something vital. “It was the _way_ he said it. In all the time I've known him, he's never... come across in quite that way before...”

 

“In _what_ way?” Obi Wan frowns. They are sitting at the back corner booth of a small cantina in CoCo Town. It is too late for lunch, and too early for dinner. In lieu of both: noodles in a mild, dark broth, and pulpy, blood-red fruits with stringy pink pith.

 

“It was as if... He just kept... _looking_ at me as if he was expecting something. And going on about this... 'legend,' he called it. And I just sort of sat there, taking it in.” Anakin is nervously chewing on his thumb. He tears at the cuticles with his teeth, sometimes to the point of drawing blood, a filthy habit which his master has never been able to break him of. (The loss of one flesh-hand has only driven him to visit twice as much abuse upon the other.)

 

“And you think he took your... _silence_ as acceptance of some sort of offer, which you think he was extending. By means of this... _legend_.”

 

“Well, yeah.”

 

“You are making an awful lot of assumptions, Anakin.”

 

“I told you, it's him!” he whispers avidly. “He's the one we've been looking for.”

 

“I'm not saying I don't believe you. But we're going to need a little more evidence.”

 

“It _is_ him. You don't know him the way I do,” he waves his mechanical hand irritably. “Or, the way I thought I did, anyway...” He looks down, fathoming the moiling depths of his mostly untouched soup. When he speaks again his voice is soft and pained: “When I think back over all the things he's said to me- things about the Council and- about _you_ \- I thought he was just concerned for me. But now I think he was trying to, I don't know- drive us apart. On purpose. He tried to make me think I couldn't go to you for help- That I should go to him instead. And it was... working. I was... falling for it. And then at the opera house... it was as if everything had lead up to that conversation. As if he had chosen that precise moment to let his mask slip a little. And he was just...”

“Testing you.”

 

“Yes, exactly. Waiting to see if I would call him on it. But I-”

 

“You didn't.”

  
“Well, no.”

 

“Because you were actually considering it.” Before he can even finish his sentence, Obi Wan is struck by a wave of guilt from Anakin so excruciatingly bitter that it's all he can do to keep himself sitting upright. He releases the feeling by touching the Force, like grounding lightening, before it can do too much damage to his over-taxed soul. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-”

 

“ _You_ are apologizing to _me_ , Master?” Anakin looks as if he might cry for the second time today. “How can you even stand to look at me right now?” Obi Wan is about to say something along the lines of _castigating yourself won't solve the problem_ , but he stops short. This, he realizes, will probably come across as dismissing the boy's feelings. Which is, if not exactly what got them into this mess, then at the very least a contributing factor.

 

“Anakin,” he begins, gently. But he doesn't get very far at all before the boy is frantically talking over him.

 

“I should have gone to you a long time ago. I should have told you- Some of the things he's said to me-” He struggles for a moment, applying the heels of his hands to his eyes. “No doubt he's been plotting against us for ages. I should have known. I've been in a better position to see it than anybody... I just didn't want to. I wanted to believe that he meant well, because I thought he was my friend. But now, when I think about some of the things he's said to me- and some of the decisions he's made about the war-” He halts. “Master, you don't think-” His gaze snaps up in horror. “When he asked for me to go after Grievous- Do you suppose... he _knew_ the Council would send you instead? Is it possible that that was his plan? To separate us, so that he could...”

 

“So that he could _do what_ , exactly?” Obi Wan is absently stirring his noodles with a tapered silver implement, his brow furrowed in vexation. “That's what I still don't understand. He's been Chancellor of the Republic for fifteen years. If he is indeed a Sith- And if his aim is to destroy the Jedi- Well, what has he been waiting for all this time?”

 

“For me, Master,” Anakin cants his head in stricken realization. “He's been waiting for _me_.” The breath seems to freeze inside his lungs. His belly slowly fills with inky, brumal despair. In his mind, the echo of a scornful Ferus Olin: _The galaxy doesn't revolve around you, Skywalker_. Oh, but what if it _does_? What then? “If you'd gone to Utapau- If you hadn't been here-”

 

“I _am_ here.”

 

But Anakin will not be allayed so easily. This current of histrionic self-loathing which has suddenly developed over the past few hours is showing every sign of becoming another one of his fixations. “Obi Wan,” he groans, “if you hadn't come to me when you did, I think I might've-”

 

“Let us reckon with what is, before we worry about what might have been.”

 

“No, listen!” he says insistently. He is grappling with something deep inside himself. His thoughts are starting to run together, pooling and flooding and rolling like drops of mercury over the glassy shoal of his mind. “The Chancellor wanted to separate us because-” _Because he knows how weak I am without you._

 

Luckily the cantina is all but deserted at this time of day, because Anakin is once again openly weeping.

 

Obi Wan makes a sound which might have begun life as a word. The boy's pain is like a sinking stone, and he is inescapably anchored to it, being pulled along to the bottom of a black, briny, psychic sea. No matter how he thrashes, those filigree threads hold him fast. They are neatly woven into his very flesh; To rip them out would utterly destroy him.

 

Honestly, he has seen Anakin lose control of himself over much less than this. But in the past, he has always managed to find some way of avoiding having to deal with it. Perhaps this is the Force's idea of a poetic punishment; Now he is obliged to deal with it in the most urgent, visceral manner imaginable. Gathering his nerves, he surrenders to the irresistible pull of Anakin's emotions, allowing himself to be subsumed...

 

The inside of his apprentice's soul is a terrifying house of mirrors. Perhaps (and he now strongly suspects this to be the case) it always has been. Obi Wan is waist-deep in nonsensical dream-images. They seem to froth and churn about him: misty, creeping, numinous, wild. Some are sinking out of sight. Others are rising to the surface, like beads of oil in water. The Chancellor, or some fictive version of him, suddenly appears, speaking, inaudibly at first, but then rising above the storm:

 

_The Jedi have merely taught you dogma, Anakin._

 

_They have not prepared you to make your own decisions._

 

_They have taught you to despise yourself._

 

_To fear your own power._

 

_They have kept you from fulfilling your potential._

 

Whether these are dreams, or memories, or portents is unclear. In any case, they seem to be causing the boy incredible distress. It is shocking, really, the extent to which Anakin obviously lacks the tools to cope with the contents of his own imagination. How long has he been such a mess? How is it possible that no one noticed?

 

But someone _did_ notice.

 

Palpatine noticed.

 

Fighting to maintain his coherence through the miasma of shame and despair, Obi Wan reaches across the table to cover Anakin's flesh hand with his own. The physical contact immediately causes that warm, golden hum to resonate through both of their bodies. The improvement in his mood is so sudden and extreme, that its almost enough to make Obi Wan laugh out loud.

 

Anakin hisses both in pleasure and pain. He struggles against the felicity filling his heart at his master's healing touch. He is trying to drag them both back into the tempest again. There is something he must recover down there, something key, swimming in the soup of all of these dreams and memories and portents. A puzzle he didn't know resided within him is finally being resolved, the variegated pieces snapping into place...

 

“Master,” he gasps. “The war-!”

 

“No,” Obi Wan shakes his head. “There is... no reason to jump to conclusions.” His eyes are closed, and he is absently stroking Anakin's hand. This balmy, honey-thick bliss is almost as hard to think through as the abject misery that preceded it.

 

“The _entire_ war.”

 

“No...” The spell is broken. He looks up in horror.

 

“From beginning to end. It explains so many things-”

 

“But, how could he have-?”

 

“Tricked us? All of us? For years?”

 

Anakin is on his feet in an instant, dashing across the room, and Obi Wan is following him only a half-second later. The creature behind the bar counter clicks and buzzes, its compound eyes flashing angrily.

 

“Sorry!” Obi Wan calls. “I'll wire you the credits!” That is, assuming Republic Credits are still worth anything by the end of this crazy day.

 

There is no time to debate the issue, because Anakin is already disappearing through the door with a swish of his cloak. There it is again, that mounting, white-hot desperation. He is getting to the point where he will not be consoled. It's all Obi Wan can do to keep up with him.

 

“Anakin-!”

 

“Don't!” There is nothing his master can say that will make this better. Because they have both been deceived and used, in the most horrific manner imaginable. Because their entire life's work together is based on a lie.

 

The Chancellor hasn't been biding his time, waiting to destroy the Jedi; He has already destroyed them: quietly, intimately, without their even noticing. He has already made them _kill_ for him.

 

They are heroes of a sham war. There is no honor in what they have done.

 

In no time at all, they arrive at the stately silver building which houses the senatorial offices. Without pausing or saying a word, Anakin is tearing through the high-ceilinged lobby like a madman, tossing security droids out of his way with a flick of his hand, and entering one of the personnel-only turbolifts.

 

“Anakin, stop this!”

 

But at this moment, there is nothing in the galaxy that can stop him from finding Padmé and burying his face in her chocolate hair.

 

The lifts are fast, and before Obi Wan can offer much of an argument, they are stepping out into a grandly windowed chamber, at a dizzying height above the surface of Coruscant, with only the most elite speeder-traffic whizzing by. Anakin presses the buzzer outside of Padmé's office about thirty times in as many seconds. Obi Wan considers laying a hand on his shoulder, but decides against it.

 

“Master Skywalker! Master Kenobi! What a pleasant surprise!” A recently-polished, and therefore quite cheerful, C-3PO answers the door.

 

“I need to see Padmé! Where is she?”

 

“I am afraid Her Ladyship is in a very important meeting. Perhaps I could take a message-”

 

“No! This is- an emergency!” Anakin practically sputters. “I need to see her right now!”

 

“Oh, dear.” C-3PO moves his arms nervously, and cants his gleaming head. “She left explicit instructions that she not be disturbed-”

 

“Where is she?”

 

“Now see here, Master Skywalker: I am informed that this is very delicate political matter. It wouldn't do at all for you to go barging in on-”

 

“Threepio, I will disassemble you here and now. _Where is she?_ ”

 

“Oh, heavens!” The droid seems to struggle momentarily. “She is with the Chancellor! But I wasn't supposed to tell you!”

 

Fear and anger fill the chamber, palpably rising, like a choking black smoke.

 

“Anakin, where do you think you are-?”

 

But the boy has disappeared into the lift, and is already rocketing down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to write Anakin too crazy, but I'm sure as Hoth gonna try.


	7. Chapter 7

“I want this terrible conflict to end,” the Chancellor intones, “just as much as you do, my lady.” He is smiling the blithe smile of someone who knows they needn't concede anything. “And when it does, I promise an immediate return to democracy.” His desk is well-placed, before a massive picture window. The buttery light of late afternoon on Coruscant fills the vaulting sky behind him, a glowing nimbus framing his ancient head.

 

Padmé is perfectly stone-faced, but she can't keep a slight note of sarcasm out of her voice. “You are pursuing a diplomatic solution to the war, then?” She can't afford to seem desperate or bitter because, the Stars know, if they are _bargaining_ for the Constitution, then they've already lost. She wishes Bail could have been here, to give the Chancellor that ironical one-eyebrow look, if only to dispel some of the tension she is feeling. She hates this, this vulgar political game. She is too young, she thinks, to be this worlds-weary.

 

“You must trust me to do the right things, Senator,” he says cooly. And then, with a sudden harshness: “That is why I am _here_.” He reveals a bit too much of his teeth as he says this, and his eyes widen fractionally, as if he has unnerved even himself.

 

She rises from her chair, grandly. This is a particular skill of hers, making mundane gestures look grand. She is regally dressed in a dark, brocade gown which is doing a valiant job of hiding her pregnancy. In a voice of durasteel, she begins:

 

“On behalf of the Delegation of Two Thousand-”

 

But she never gets to deliver her well-crafted little speech, because a crazed-looking Anakin Skywalker has just erupted into the Chancellor's office.

 

“Everyone out!” He addresses the group of senators like an impatient schoolmaster addressing a group of rowdy children. “Please, for your own safety!”

 

Padmé turns to her colleagues with a look that says _I'll handle this nonsense_ , and then to Anakin, with a look that says _You are about to be handled_. “Jedi Skywalker, whatever is the matter?” she says evenly, donning the mask of aloofness from him which she must always wear in public. But this time, he's not playing along.

 

“Oh, Padmé!” he cries, grasping her by the shoulders. “Listen, everything is going to be alright! I've figured it all out!” And then he is pulling her against him and hungrily kissing her face. “It- it's horrible, what's happened-! What's been done to us-! But we can still fix it!”

 

“What are you- _talking_ about?!” she sputters, looking frantically around for her fellow senators, because they really shouldn't be seeing this, and what is she going to tell them-? But they are nowhere to be found. Whether frightened or simply mortified by the famous Jedi's bizarre entrance, all four of her esteemed colleagues have already quietly let themselves out of the room.

 

The Chancellor, for his part, remains seated. “Young Anakin, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

 

“ _You!_ ” Anakin seethes, stepping away from his very confused wife, and towards the object of his ire. “ _You stay away from her!_ ”

 

The old man simply raises his eyebrows, bemused. “Is something... troubling you, my dear friend?” he smiles.

 

“Don't try to play games with me! I know what you are!”

 

“What I _am_?” he mocks. “What a curious notion.”

 

Anakin shifts his weight from one foot to the other, shielding Padmé's body with his own. “You must go, my love. Get somewhere safe. I will deal with _him_.”

 

She crosses her arms, frowning incredulously. “With who? The Chancellor?”

 

“Yes,” he says, dangerously. And the very next instant, he has drawn his lightsaber.

 

Padmé recoils from her husband in horror. He is sweating, trembling with fury, ready to strike- ready to _kill_. This is like a nightmare! It can't be real. She withdraws a hand she doesn't remember covering her mouth with. _Anakin!_ she wants to cry, _This is not how we deal with people we disagree with!_ But instead:“Anakin, what are you _doing_?”

 

“Fulfilling my destiny,” he says. And saying it makes it real.

 

“Stop this!” She moves to stand between him and the Chancellor. “Before someone gets hurt!”

 

“ _Padmé_ ,” he whispers. Her name is a plea. “You don't understand.” His eyes are butane-blue, and shining with hot, chromium tears. “He is the one-! He is... _the Dark Lord of the Sith_.”

 

“ _What?_ ” It's so absurd, she almost feels like laughing. Palpatine? The Sith Lord? It couldn't be. In fact, it almost seems... _too_ simple, _too_ obvious... It's like some sort of bad espionage holo-drama.

 

“Wherever did you get such an outlandish idea?” The alleged Sith Lord shakes his head good-naturedly, his watery eyes crinkling at the corners.

 

“You more or less told me so yourself!”

 

“I am certain I said no such thing, my boy.”

 

“Don't give me that Hutt-spit!” Anakin gestures emphatically with his saber. “That horrible... _fairytale_ you told me was practically a confession.”

 

“Ah, yes. Perhaps you refer to The Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise.” He smiles, somewhat condescendingly. “You are very perceptive, Anakin.”

 

Padmé looks frantically between the two men. “I don't believe this!” She turns on the Chancellor accusingly, her voice shaking. “You _know_ what he's talking about? You actually-?”

 

“Indeed, Senator,” he chuckles to himself, as unflappable as ever. “It is true that I am proficient in the... _arcane arts_.” He looks up at Anakin, affectionately. “I have wanted for some time to offer you assistance, my boy, of a kind you will never receive from the Jedi. I hope you can appreciate why it was necessary for me to observe such discretion.”

 

“I don't care what you're offering! There is only one thing I want from you, you monster!” He his struggling to hold his fighting stance. He seems inclined to pace about, but there isn't much room between the desk and Padmé. “I want you to get up and face me! I want to kill you while you're on your feet!” He is screaming now, huge, boiling tears pouring down his reddening face.

 

At this, Palpatine doesn't even flinch. Instead, he closes his eyes in rapture. “Yes...” he whispers. “I can _feel_ your anger. It makes you powerful- Gives you _focus_.” Slowly, dreamily, placing both hands on his desk, he rises. “Only through the ways of the Sith can you harness these emotions, and use them to reach your full potential.” His gaze comes to rest dolefully on Padmé. “And only by accessing your full powers can you save your beloved wife... from certain death.”

 

It's a great little speech, and expertly delivered. Too bad Anakin is shouting over him, barely listening. “You told me the Council was just using me for my powers... But you're just like them; trying to _use_ me! You never had any intention of saving Padmé! I thought you were my friend! I trusted you! And now, you're trying to offer me-!” he shudders. “I'll never forgive myself! I can't believe I actually considered-!” His sobs are choking him. Unable to finish his sentence, he opts to lash out with his saber instead.

 

But Palpatine is ready for him, pulling his own red saber seemingly out of thin air, and blocking the boy's every blow with ease. Padmé screams, ducking away from the furiously swinging blades. The Chancellor, a man she has known for most of her life, is rendered unrecognizable as he throws his head back, cackling madly.

 

After an initial volley of rapid strikes, the two combatants pull away, circling each other, blades aloft.

 

“You have already touched the Darkness. It is only a matter of time before you realize how much you long to know it's secrets. Secrets only _I_ can teach you. Soon, Anakin Skywalker, you will call me _Master_. I have foreseen it.”

 

“ _Never!_ ” Anakin roars. “Obi Wan is the _only_ one I will ever call Master!”

 

“Kenobi?” Palpatine practically guffaws. “What can that fool possibly teach you? He doesn't get out of bed in the morning without the express permission of the Jedi Council. He will betray you the moment your interests conflict with those of his little cult.”

 

“That's not true! You were wrong about him; Obi Wan is not like the other Jedi. He has _never_ tried to use me- He has only ever tried to help me. I am proud to call him my master!”

 

“Oh my friend, how young you are” Palpatine shakes his head in mock-pity. “How changeable you are. Only days ago you were uncertain of Kenobi's loyalty to you. Today you proclaim him your ally. But tomorrow, who knows? What can he offer you, ultimately? Can he save your wife? Can he show you the true nature of the Force?”

 

“Obi Wan loves me!” Anakin yells. And all at once he is driving the Chancellor back, punctuating each rapid, brutal swing of his saber with another furious cry. It is true what the Dark Lord says; Anakin's anger _does_ make him more powerful. Spotting an opening in the swift play of blades, he lunges forward with vicious grace, knocking the old man off his feet, and the red saber out his hand and clean across the room. He is panting from exertion as he bares down on his opponent, the tip of his azure blade inches from the monster's withered throat.

 

“Obi Wan _loves_ me,” he repeats, this time in a reverent whisper. “I know it for certain now. I have felt it. We love each other. Something a Force-forsaken creature like you could never hope to understand!”

 

The Chancellor, being what he is, has a few more tricks up his sleeve. Laughing maniacally, he unleashes a wave of lightening, which Anakin ably deflects with his blade. Padmé fancies she's handled everything up to this point rather well, but when the Chancellor's face appears to melt like wax into a horrible cackling death-mask, she is forced to find the wall behind her to maintain her balance.

 

Anakin might have succeeded in keeping the lightening at bay too, if a certain Obi Wan Kenobi hadn't chosen this exact moment to burst into the room, as if the mere verbal invocation of his love were enough to summon the Jedi master. As it is, the momentary distraction costs Anakin his edge, and he is brought down by the crackling bolts of energy.

 

“Anakin, what in the galaxy do you think you are-?” Obi Wan stops in the middle of the polished floor, taking in the scene before him. “ _Anakin!_ ” he cries. The golden link between them burns, flashing across the Force in all its strange power.

 

As he looks back and forth between the younger Jedi and his master, the Chancellor's grotesque yellow eyes widen in what appears to be genuine fear and disgust. “Incredible!” he cries. “Truly the hypocrisy of the Jedi knows no bounds! You speak of the 'Will of the Force,' of what is _balanced_ and _natural-_ Yet, in your quest to gain enough power to defeat me, you have willingly _mutilated_ your own souls!”

 

Ignoring this, Obi Wan draws his lightsaber and moves to help his former-padawan. But before he can get very far at all, Palpatine calls his own saber from across the room. The red blade travels by a somewhat circuitous route, which is to say it is pulled point-first, into Obi Wan's back, and then all the way through his body, before coming to rest, its hilt covered with gore, in its owner's wrinkled hand. Obi Wan pitches forward limply onto the slippery marble floor, his mouth quickly filling with blood.

 

With a dry sob of horror, Padmé falls to her knees beside him. In a moment, she is joined by Anakin, still trembling from the effects of the lightening, all color drained from his face. When she looks up a second later, the Chancellor has disappeared, and even that doesn't matter, because Obi Wan has been pierced all way the through, the great aperture in this belly endlessly issuing blood, and now this really _is_ like a nightmare-

 

“No no nononono...” Anakin is muttering wretchedly. “M-master, no. No. No, this can't- No. Master, _please_ -”

 

Padmé swallows her fear. It's time to take charge. “Anakin,” she says, seizing him by the shoulders. “Anakin, he's still breathing!”

 

“ _No please no nonono_ - _!_ ”

 

“You need to give me your comlink! We need to call an emergency channel!”

 

The hot, syrupy blood is everywhere, and then it is all over Anakin's hands as he is laying them on his master's dying body, and then it is all over his face- His master's flesh calls out to his own flesh. They are one. The moment they touch, the tiny golden threads throughout their bodies seem to sing; They are instantly filling each other with warmth and light. “No, Padmé,” he says, with a sudden, eerie calm. “They can't save him.”

 

“But we have to try-!”

 

“Don't worry. We don't need them to.”

 

“Anakin!” she screams, shaking him. “ _What are you talking about?!_ ”

 

He smiles, as though in some sort of trance. “ _I_ can save him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come for the high-concept space wizard hijinks, stay for the tawdry melodrama.


	8. Chapter 8

For the second instance in twenty-four hours, Obi Wan Kenobi wakes to find himself lying on a strange sofa, in a strange room, inundated with strange feelings, and left to wonder what manner of sorcery has been inflicted upon his unconscious person _this_ time.

 

He moves to sit up, only to fall back down again at once when tensing his abdominal muscles proves excruciatingly painful. Peering over his chest by raising his neck slightly, he catches sight of what appears to be a tangle of bloody rags strewn across the gleaming marble floor. He is warm, almost uncomfortably so. His face is glossed with sweat. Feeling carefully along his torso with both hands, he finds that all but the innermost of his tunics have been removed. Questing fingers stop just above his navel. Here, about six centimeters in diameter, is the locus of pain.

 

Drawing a measured breath, he tries again, very slowly this time, to pull himself upright, relying mostly on the strength of his arms. He succeeds about half-way, leaning his head against the back of the sofa. From this position, he can take better stock of himself.

 

His beige tunic is splattered with dark blood, and there is a neat circular hole burned through the front of it. And beneath that, the livid pink soreness of brand new flesh.

 

“Master? You're awake!” Suddenly Anakin is there, kneeling beside him, gently brushing the damp hair away from his forehead.

 

Obi Wan subdues a moan, weakly leaning into Anakin's petting. And all at once it's starting to take over again, that weird, irresistible pull. Whatever this is, this humming auric energy which is generated in the metaphysical space between them, his body seems to crave it now. Perhaps especially when he is injured, as seems to be the immediate case. Warrior-priest of the greatest numinal order in the galaxy though he is, he has never experienced anything quite like this. From what he knows by his studies, it shouldn't be possible for mere physical contact to be healing and nourishing him in this way.

 

“How do you feel?” Anakin frowns.

 

 _Every moment that you're touching me I feel better_ , though literally true, is a sentence Obi Wan's conscious mind is determined to avoid forming. So instead:

 

“I'm fine.”

 

“You're hardly fine,” Anakin shakes his head. “You very nearly died,” he admonishes gravely, though he is nonetheless smiling. “Do you remember what happened? The Chancellor-”

 

“Yes. Now that you mention it, I do remember.”

 

“Master,” he angles his head even closer, fervently half-whispering. “I _saved_ you.”

 

“Indeed. And how did you... hmm... manage that?”

 

“I don't know, exactly,” he says, biting his lip. “I felt it again, that- Well, you know, that _compulsion_... To touch you, I mean.” He blushes, with a sort of uncharacteristic subtlety. "I just sort of... held you until you were okay. The bleeding stopped, and then it seemed almost like... as long as I was holding you, you would just keep getting better and better.” He looks down, and then back up again. His eyes are lit with both confusion and elation. “And not just you, Master, but... me also. I started to feel better too. More _powerful_ , I mean. Just from holding you.” He is rambling now. The hand that has been running through Obi Wan's hair continues its petting, but slower. “Eventually, when it seemed like you were going to be okay, I stopped. Let go of you, I mean. Just- I don't know- To make sure I _could_. It was... difficult.” It is clear as he says this that he is beginning to have the same difficulty again. “And now, here we all are.”

 

“And where exactly is here?”

 

“The Chancellor's office. We never left. No clue where _he_ is, by the way...”

 

“Well,” Obi Wan sighs, careful not to aggravate the raw new flesh of his middle. “First things first. Help me up, would you?”

 

“Are you sure you're okay to sit upright?”

 

“I will be, in a moment,” he says vaguely. And though he can't even begin to understand the mechanism behind it, sure enough, Anakin's arms wrapping around him are what make this statement true.

 

It's like... well, honestly it's not unlike plugging a droid in to charge. Or at least that's the sort of metaphor Anakin would probably use. Whatever invisible changes have taken place within their bodies, they seem to have been... _reformatted_ for this. Whatever _this_ even is. It's not erotic, this overwhelming physical attraction between them, or rather, only in the most obscure possible way. Like the way the attraction between hydrogen atoms is erotic.

 

“ _Master_ ,” Anakin breathes against him. “Master, I saved you. Just by willing it, I- _I stopped you from dying._ ” He plunges eager mental fingers into the winding golden cord, allowing its sweet music to fill him once again, drinking deeply of its seemingly inexhaustible power. It feels even better, now that his master's mind is conscious, and able to commune him more directly, without the veil of dreams.

 

“Anakin...” Obi Wan mutters, falteringly. “Anakin, please... Too much...”

 

In their time together, Obi Wan had often shrunk away from his padawan's more intimate mental touches. Whether this was out of duty, or fear, or some combination thereof, he cannot honestly say. Now, the point is rather moot. Anakin is shamelessly caressing him- caressing him _inside_ \- and there is really very little he can do about it. He has never been inclined to give or receive this sort of naked affection so readily, and now that it's pouring out of him and into him against his will, he can't help but feel increasingly panicky and trapped. He is far too warm, and Anakin is far too close, and it's all far too intense-

 

Luckily, Padmé chooses this moment to enter the room, handily breaking the spell by diverting Anakin's attention. She has shed the outer layers of her heavy brocade gown, down to a pale-yellow under-dress with rich ochre embroidery, and matching yellow leggings. Her hair, previously elaborately done-up, now hangs about her shoulders, a mass of buoyant curls.

 

“Padmé!” Anakin turns to her excitedly, “Look who's up!”

 

“I'm so glad you're alright, Obi Wan,” she says, barely meeting his eyes. Her face is pale and grim.

 

“Darling, what's wrong?” Anakin frowns.

 

“There's something you both to need to see.” She glides across the room, one hand on her swollen belly, and lowers herself onto the sofa beside Obi Wan, tossing her hair over one shoulder with a concise turn of her elegant head. Anakin remains kneeling on the floor, gazing fondly up at the two of them. Reaching for the controls under the arm of the sofa, Padmé flips on the HoloNet, causing a translucent image of the hideously misshapen Chancellor to spring to life from a projector on the adjacent tea table.

 

“... _remaining Jedi will be hunted down and defeated. Any collaborators will suffer the same fate. These have been trying times, but we have passed the test. The attempt on my life has left me scarred and deformed, but I assure you my resolve has never been stronger. The_ _war i_ _s over. The Separatists have been defeated, and the Jedi rebellion has been...”_

 

“Oh, _Stars_.” Obi Wan shakes his bleary head against his sweating palms. “Is this... a live feed?”

 

“It is.”

 

“But surely-! The Senate won't stand for this!”

 

“Oh, yes,” she sneers. “I'm sure my colleagues' thunderous applause is meant in protest!” She looks bitterly at the pontificating Chancellor, but her gaze seems to pass through the hologram insensibly. “And there's more. It gets worse.”

 

“How could it be worse?”

 

“Bail commed me. It's the clone troopers,” she sighs, pressing an anguished hand to her temple. “They've... they've somehow been made to turn against the Jedi. He says-” She swallows, her voice beginning to waver. “He says they're being sent... to k-kill you. _All_ of you.”

 

With this, Anakin is on his feet, angrily pacing the room. “It's my fault,” he growls. “I let him go!”

 

“Don't be absurd,” says Obi Wan, perhaps a bit more irritably than he means to.

 

“I had my lightsaber at his throat! I should have- _ended him_ right then and there. But I- I lost focus. I let him draw me into his little game.”

 

“Castigating yourself won't solve-”

 

“It won't happen again,” Anakin seethes. “Next time I'll destroy him!”

 

“Let's try to take things as they come,” says Obi Wan, conveying calm across their bond, at least to the extent that he can muster any in himself. “It could take weeks for clones to track down _all_ the Jedi. They are spread out across the galaxy, and-”

 

Anakin turns sharply on his heel. “The temple, Master! Who is at the temple?”

 

“I don't know...”

 

“This was his plan!” Anakin cries, anxiously dragging both hands through his stringy, unwashed hair. “To gain my... allegiance. To draw the rest of the Jedi away from Coruscant. To leave the temple undefended.”

 

Horror flashes between them, like a cold, darting knife.

 

_The younglings._

 

“Master,” says Anakin soberly. “Can you walk?”

 

“Yes, I think so.”

 

He takes a hesitant step towards the sofa, before hooking his hands under his master's arms and helping to pull him to his feet. He reaches out experimentally as he does so, still learning the terms of their new bond, and begins deliberately pouring strength into Obi Wan's body. “We have to go,” he says. “There's no time to waste.”

 

“Indeed.” Obi Wan closes his eyes for a moment, allowing the strange, bright energy to wash over him, soothing the pain in his belly and clearing his head, as Anakin pulls his master's arm around his neck to support him standing.

 

“Padmé,” Anakin looks to his wife fervently. “Where can we take you?”

 

“Don't be ridiculous,” she says, rising from the sofa adroitly. “I'm coming along.”

 

“What-? No-! We have to get you somewhere safe!”

 

“Nowhere is safe with that monster in charge!”

 

He is blinking too much, beginning to panic. “ _Padmé_ ,” he begs, “you _can't._ They're coming after _us_ not _you_!”

 

“You think I won't be a target?” she smiles, bitterly. “I'm sure the Chancellor has plans for his political enemies as well as his religious ones. Even if my security team remains loyal to me, and that is an _if_ -” she points a brisk finger at him, “they aren't prepared to face the clone army! Much less an adversary who can use the Force! I might as well stay with you.”

 

“We- We'll get you off-planet,” he insists. “There are any number of places for you to hide!”

 

“And just... abandon the Republic in its hour of need?” She draws herself up fiercely, diminutive though she is beside him. “Who do you think I _am_?”

 

“Well you can't- You're not- _coming into battle_ with us!” He releases Obi Wan and moves towards her, his voice rapidly escalating. This is the stage of an Anakin-fit in which he loses control of his tone. “I- I forbid it!”

 

“Ani,” she says, evenly, not because he deserves her patience right now, but because it is her job to be the patient one. “You can't do that. You can't just give me orders.”

 

He looks around, helplessly. “Master, tell her-!”

 

“She is right,” says Obi Wan, pensively rubbing his beard. “Her life may be at risk either way. Only she can choose precisely _how_ to risk it.”

 

“I don't believe this!” Anakin throws up his hands. “Are you two actually _ganging up_ on me?”

 

Padmé smiles a distant, weary smile, throwing her slender arms about her husband's broad shoulders. “You know, now I wish you'd told Obi Wan about us a long time ago,” she says, cooly. Standing on tiptoes, she presses a somewhat condescending little kiss to his forehead. “I could've used the help.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm... OT3, anyone?
> 
> Congratulations, you've made it through eight chapters of set-up. Drunk and late to the party, the plot has finally arrived.


	9. Chapter 9

“Master Skywalker, there are too many of them! What are we going to do?”

 

The little boy takes a few halting steps as he says this, his cornsilk hair reflecting the halflight, the set of his shoulders the only indication of the magnitude of his fear. The Jedi children do not whimper or cry as ordinary children might, but only tilt their heads and knit their brows and wait for their instructions.

 

Anakin lowers himself to one knee and gently lays his mechanical hand on the boy's quivering arm. “Don't be afraid,” he murmurs. He stands resolutely, turning to indicate his wife. “Go with Senator Amidala. She will take you downstairs where you will be safe until all of this is over.”

 

Padmé smiles in what she hopes is a reassuring manner. It strikes her that, despite her own impending motherhood, she doesn't really know very much about dealing with children. The younglings regard her with skepticism, but move to follow her out of the room nonetheless. They are, she thinks, as she leads them hurriedly along the lofty columned mezzanines of the temple, the sounds of blaster fire close at hand, entirely _too_ placid, serious, reasonable, and obedient. That familiar Jedi affect, so admirable in Anakin's master, is downright _disturbing_ in beings so young.

 

Anakin pauses in the shuddering corridor, the approaching temblor of battle rocking his body, to watch the figure of his wife receding into the distance, a waist-high bevy of children gathering about her as she seems to glide, with singular purpose, away from him. Floret-like in her simple yellow tunic and bistre-brown slippers, the dark halo of her perfumed hair swaying as she walks, she resembles in this moment, more acutely than ever before, one of the fabled Diathim-Angels of Iego. Seeing her go, he feels as if he is being torn open, and his precious, soft, slippery, viscera brutally spilled.

 

He knows why they are here and what they must do. When they first arrived to find the oozing corpse of gatekeeper Jurokk sprawled across the temple steps under the raw, pounding, chlorinated rain, he knew at once what they were up against. But for a moment, seeing her go, he doesn't care about his duty.

 

Some vital filament within him shorts just then, and for a moment, he is _this close_ to dashing after Padmé, seizing her up bodily, and fleeing from the crumbling temple with his beloved in his arms. He wants nothing more than to disappear with her into the clean, clear, quiet, halcyon void of space. He would gladly abandon the helpless younglings, the sacred Jedi Order, the hallowed old Republic, the whole doomed, corrupted, rotting, wasting, turgid, fraudulent edifice of galactic civilization itself, to whatever wretched fate, so that he might possess her-

 

But then his master (who is increasingly beloved to him as well) calls out to him, and the madness passes like the shadow of a storm cloud carried swiftly over land by some firm but gentle atmospheric front.

 

“I gathered as many as I could find,” says Obi Wan breathlessly, as he rounds the corner into the hall, closely followed by a throng of senior-padawans.

 

Anakin nods solemnly to himself before addressing the group. “Senator Amidala has taken the younglings to the lowest level of the archives to wait out the danger. All who wish to accompany her are free to do so.” He pauses, glancing around before continuing. “All who are prepared to fight, follow us.”

 

The padawans gaze back at him, not one of them breaking rank. A scrawny, pale-green Twi'lek boy. A human girl with chocolate skin and clever, jewel-black eyes. Their faces are alight with real fear, for they understand violence in a way the younglings do not. Yet rising above this fear is a steely, shared determination. They will gladly fight to defend the only home they have ever known. After all: their heroes, Kenobi and Skywalker, have come to deliver them from evil.

 

Ancient stone walls vibrate with the percussive shock of a massive thermal detonation, raining grit and debris down upon their heads. The clones have finally breeched the inner gates.

 

“Now,” says Anakin simply. He ducks through the same bowed egress by which they came in, the others following him, without further comment, into the grand, echoing foyer. He narrows his eyes as anger, that familiar pyretic ember, burns his chest. The Jedi Council have been fools. They have played directly into the hands of the Sith. And now, they are not even present to protect their innocent charges from the terrible consequences of their mistakes. The hour of their reckoning is upon them. This trial by fire, he thinks, with grim satisfaction, will decide once and for all who the _true_ Jedi are.

 

There is a moment of pent silence, marred only by their careful footfalls and the rustling of their cloaks, during which the anger in Anakin's heart is joined by its trusty old companion, fear. The knowledge that they may be the only thing standing between the Jedi Order and its utter annihilation swallows him whole like one of the vicious mucksand pits of Kirdo III. But then he reaches for Obi Wan's hand, giving it an urgent squeeze, and the moment their flesh touches, sending a brilliant arc of light coruscating between them, he knows for certain they will triumph.

 

Anakin feels himself open up like a flower as the golden light unfurls from within him, flooding him with powers beyond anything he's ever been able to summon before. He is seized by a sudden, alien joy as, hand in hand, he and his master lead the small army of youths across the resounding marble chamber towards their destiny. Such is this burning elation, that when the first wave of clone troopers actually cross the columned threshold of the foyer to meet them, he almost feels like laughing. Instead: With a single, devastatingly graceful gesture, he draws his hot-blue saber and begins to simply cut them down.

 

He can feel his master beside him, similarly engaged. He is sure they have never fought so well together against a swarm of enemies. They are unstoppable. They move in perfect tandem, effortlessly deflecting laser blasts, their bodies seeming to communicate with each other on some visceral level just beyond their conscious awareness or control. He is peripherally cognizant of the padawans, holding their own against clone troopers in and around the colonnade. Once again, there is a sort of warm, pleasant effluvium over everything.

 

How he has needed this! When he realized what all his and Obi Wan's victories in the Clone Wars amounted to, it was utterly wrenching, almost too much for him to bear. Now he can be redeemed as a warrior, washed clean under the pelting rain of blaster fire. And moreover, he and his master can be redeemed as a team. There is no ambiguity in what they are doing now, he thinks. No strategy, no negotiation, no kriffing _politics_. They are simply doing their duty. They are defending innocent children from the forces that would destroy them. And they are winning handily. There could be no cleaner, sweeter victory.

 

The Senate is submitting to Palpatine without a fight. The Jedi council is spread out across the galaxy, in accordance with Palpatine's sinister design. Right here, right now, there is only Anakin and his master. They alone have managed to truly thwart the Sith. For years, they too were unwitting pawns of the Chancellor, but no more. Now, they will use their new powers to achieve their _own_ purposes. And they won't have to answer to anyone but each other.

 

These are the giddy thoughts which race through Anakin Skywalker's head as the clones continue to come in wave after wave. The fact that these creatures were, until quite recently, his comrades in arms barely registers in his mind as he summarily destroys them.

 

He feels invincible. He thought he had felt that way before in battle, but not like this. Never like this. His muscles thrum with warm, golden energy. He almost feels like _letting_ a blaster bolt or two hit him, just to see if it could even penetrate his glowing skin. He is adrift in a sea of enemies, and there is nothing but his own impossibly powerful body, and his master's similarly powerful body, always somewhere just beside him, moving with him through this beautiful, merciless dance.

 

At length, the last of the clone troopers falls, and the fury is over.

 

Anakin has no idea how much time has elapsed. He turns about, retracting his lightsaber, and clipping it to his belt. He is standing in the center of the floor, surrounded by dead clone troopers, and Obi Wan is at his side. After a beat, the padawans emerge from beyond the colonnade, slowly circling the two of them. Every one of them wears the same expression of awe and carefully controlled fear. A few are wounded, but miraculously, all have survived.

 

Obi Wan is still wearing only the innermost of his beige linen tunics, which does not cover his arms. His skin is glistening with sweat, and something else- That singular inner light. His left bicep, having been grazed by a blaster bolt, is sluggishly bleeding. Abruptly, almost instinctively, Anakin reaches out to cover the wound with his natural hand, willing the flesh to mend. And it does, receding and smoothing over, until the laceration is little more than a bruise. Obi Wan's clear gaze lifts, and Anakin realizes that his master is looking at him with the very same mixture of awe and fear as the padawans. He looks like he is about to pull away from the touch, but seconds pass in which he doesn't. He is either succeeding at remaining still, or somehow failing at flinching.

 

They have just drawn upon each other in some new, unprecedented way, causing the uncanny fissure which they have somehow created in the fabric of the Force to be prized open even further than before. There is a flash of blinding, horrible, aluminum-fire white behind their eyes, as the rushing channel of light between them screams in momentary agony, before seeming to settle, with a steady, warm pulse, into its new quantum state.

 

Obi Wan manages to collect himself first. “Is everyone alright?” he says, glancing around, and once again he is surprised by the almost imperceptible suggestive quality of his own voice. The padawans look to him with reverence and expectation, any wariness immediately disappearing from their faces. He wonders with alarm if his powers are somehow _compelling_ their attention- He can't even tell.

 

“There will probably be more of them,” says Anakin restlessly. “But maybe not for a while. We should-” He starts to turn away, and then turns abruptly back, as if he isn't sure what to do with his body now that he isn't slashing through something. “Let's go see about Padmé and the children.”

 

Obi Wan nods, briefly closing his eyes. The adrenaline is starting to ebb away, and he is suddenly feeling exhausted.

 

“Downstairs, everyone,” Anakin calls.

 

And wordlessly, (For what is to be said?) they follow.

 

Many stories below the surface of Coruscant, at the bottom of a flight of red granite stairs, Padmé is waiting for them, anxiously twisting the dark, satiny rope of her hair between her hands. Her glistening eyes turn upwards, and when she catches sight of them, she fairly sobs with joy. Before she can say anything, Anakin sprints deftly down and sweeps her up into his arms.

 

“Oh, Ani,” she shakes her head against his chest. “It sounded terrible! I couldn't breathe! Are you-?”

 

“I'm fine, my love” he says, laughingly. “Everyone is alright.”

 

She stiffens, looking up into his lapis eyes with an inchoate little sound at the back of her throat. His voice! It is her husband's familiar voice, and yet... She peers over his shoulder to see Obi Wan standing a few feet away, and inclining his head to her in respect.

 

“We appear to be safe, M'lady, if only for the moment,” he says, furrowing his brow.

 

There is something inexplicably different, she thinks, about both of them. Some ineffable quality they didn't possess just hours ago. They seem, not _threatening_ exactly- she doesn't think for a moment they intend to hurt her- but _arresting_ certainly, _magnetic_ even. She has been sort of fascinated by the Jedi for as long as she can remember, but she has never before felt so plain and mortal in their presence. She takes a wandering step back from Anakin, gathering herself up.

 

“The younglings,” she says, averting her eyes. “They're getting tired.”

 

“Of course,” Anakin smiles. “It must be their bedtime by now.”

 

With the help of several senior-padawans, it takes them less than half a standard hour to scour the temple for pillows and blankets and food and supplies, and barricade themselves in the basement of the archives as, far above them, the blue-white Coruscant sun is setting in a garnet-pink sky.

 

They shower in shifts, and then, in shifts, they sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was in high school, a writing instructor once told me that my overuse of adverbs was a sign that I didn't have strong enough verbs. I vehemently disagreed.


	10. Interlude

**First Watch**

 

Far above them the night rambles on, while here there is but silence, and stillness.

 

The cold marble floor is muffled under a thick layer of blankets and warm bodies, throwing off the acoustics, and making the grand underground chamber ring hollow. There is no sound but the quiet sibilance of the backup generator, and the oceanic chorus of breathing.

 

Anakin Skywalker sits cross-legged at the center of a sea of sleeping children, holding himself in a light meditative trance. He is carefully feeling his way along the subtle threads of temporal actualization, which are the source of his terrible gift of foresight. The future is like a frolicking sundog, leaping in micro-causal rainbow arcs over the infinite cloudless sky of reality, threatening to manifest at every moat of dust and tiny snow crystal which disturbs its otherwise perfect emptiness. Yes, always in motion it is, as it laughingly skirts his mental grasp, time and time again.

 

The Senate will fall. The Jedi Council will fall- _has fallen_. He can feel it. Everything is being torn up and turned open. The august institutions which have structured all of their lives for so many years are being pulled up by the roots. Their rich old pulp will serve as humus for the new growth. The land will be clear-cut, and field-burned, and from this new tillage, nourished by the ashes of the Old Republic-

 

Anakin's heart hammers in excitement and fear. For once in his life, he is truly untethered. As much as he has always resented his confinement, he has also come, after a fashion, to rely upon it. But now, to discover on what shifting sands the architecture of the Old Republic rested! To find that all he fought and killed for was a lie, that nothing matters, nothing is real-!

 

_But love is real._

 

Oh, yes. He is critically balanced on the precipice of an uncertain future, but he is not alone. The two people he loves most in all the galaxy are lying curled in the nest of blankets, just centimeters from him on either side, safe, and clean, and sound asleep. The Republic be damned. He has everything he needs right here.

 

Earlier, they had ventured upstairs one by one to scrub the battle from their skin. And Anakin had briefly wept as he bowed his head under the pressure of the water-shower, and washed himself clean of the Chancellor's vile touch.

 

But now he is exactly where he belongs: With Obi Wan and Padmé. The three of them are huddled together at the center of the galaxy, in the eye of the gathering storm. (And they are all smooth skin, and elegant limbs, and silky hair which smells of gentle soap...) The memory of Palpatine's withered old hand on his shoulder can no longer hurt him, as he relishes the nearness of strong, young, beautiful bodies just like his own.

 

As the opal-bright spearhead of the present moment continues its slaloming course through the gossamer tangle of probability, some threads are caught and integrated into the fabric, while others are dropped like loops of wool by a crochet hook, blinking out of existence the instant their lines are tugged. Anakin searches among these dead ends for the terrible future which Obi Wan spoke of, the one in which he would have found himself _alone_. Feelings and images spring to the fore-

 

 _A brave young woman cringing under the rigors of torture, her dark eyes glittering with defiance as she_ _refuses to betray her peoples' secrets_ _. A kind young man with grain-colored hair cradling his severed limb as he dangles over a bottomless chasm the very blue-black of space and lit by winking diode stars. Millions of voices crying out in terror, suddenly silenced-_

 

The glare of infinity blinds his inner eye, and he can't seem to make out the specifics of what must have lay along that other path. But this much is absolutely clear:

 

His master has _saved_ him.

 

He had been falling, and Obi Wan had caught him. He had been trapped in a spiral of confusion and despair, paralyzed by the simultaneous pull of all his various desires and duties and allegiances, and it was only because of his master's timely intervention that he escaped the vortex intact. Other figures of authority have given him commands and promises, but only Obi Wan has produced results. Without attempting to bribe him, or threaten him, or coerce him in any way, without even asking for anything in return, Obi Wan has given him the means to have everything he wants- Not only to save Padmé from immediate peril, but to make the entire galaxy safe for his wife and child, forever. Yes, it is only because of Obi Wan's goodness and courage, his wisdom and knowledge of the Force, that Anakin has managed to avoid a fate worse than any he can imagine.

 

And that, he thinks fondly, is why he is but the learner, and Obi Wan is the master.

 

How he has misjudged the elder Jedi! He feels terrible now, for the bitterness he once nursed. He had come to view Obi Wan as just another manifestation of the tyranny the Jedi Council held over his life, but now he knows better: His poor master is even more a victim of the Council than he is. They have had Obi Wan since infancy, and their indoctrination has crippled his soul. They have never been able to fully destroy his capacity to love, but they have done the next best thing: They have made him feel ashamed of it.

 

Through their strange new link, Anakin can finally sense his master's emotions, without any boundary or filter, and this has given him a whole new perspective on the man. At first, he had been disappointed that his psychic touches were so haltingly, tepidly returned. But at length, he has come to understand the sad truth: These tortured, hesitant stabs of affection are the most Obi Wan allows himself to feel towards anyone.

 

Anakin gazes wistfully down at his sleeping master -the pale curl of his fingers against the rise and fall of his chest, the troubled creasing of his brow beneath the fringe of his copper hair- and smiles to himself, earnestly resolving to teach the poor man how to love fully and properly. It is the least he can do for the person who has saved him, who has given him everything. Yes, he has been horribly unappreciative in the past, but he will make up for it. He has changed, he is _more_ than he was before, and now he will fix everything exactly the way it should be.

 

With renewed purpose, Anakin dives again into the rushing, glowing morass, and this time, the Force sees fit to answer his wild, violent prayers. Time is a spinning prism of inconceivable crystalline variance, constantly throwing kaleidoscopic lights in all directions against the smooth, black surface of eternity. It is impossible for any mortal to perceive all of this multiplicity at once, but sometimes a stray beam glances off the inner eye just right, and facts about the future can be gleaned: No matter what the Chancellor claims to have foreseen, Anakin will never call him master. Padmé will not die in childbirth. Anakin will not find himself alone. His nightmares have been well and truly averted.

 

Another light strikes him, and this one is so beautiful that somewhere in the waking-world, his corporeal body audibly sobs with joy. Oh, Padmé! He loved her to the point of madness _before,_  but her ability to give him children has made her even more dear to him. She is lying with her hands folded over her belly, her dark hair still damp from showering, her milk-smooth face washed clean of paint. The Force is beckoning- The halo of destiny surrounds Padmé's child. It will have his powers, and Padmé's noble heart. Not only will its birth lend meaning to his own troubled existence, but it will touch the lives of trillions. In this time of bloodshed, and chaos, and rupture, his lovely, virtuous wife will bring forth, by the very labor of her body, something more than a child: A being both light and dark, male and female, novel and ancient- A new hope for the galaxy.

 

And they will be the proud young parents of this, this new galaxy without Jedi, or Sith, or Separatists, or Republic. Padmé will teach it about worldly things, and Obi Wan will teach it about the Force, and they will raise it together, the three of them. And it will be free- Free to flourish, free to fulfill its potential, free as _they_ never were.

 

Anakin Skywalker opens his eyes, and he is still sitting cross-legged on the floor of an echoing basement chamber, and he is still surrounded by sleeping bodies, and the planet is still turning beneath him, and his loved ones are still close enough to touch. He laughs a soft, cathartic, gasping laugh, and the air is cool and dry as the inside of a cave. The ancient totems carved into the walls around him are as ephemeral and meaningless as bantha tracks in sand. The stately pink marble columns are nothing but course chunks of stone. The Jedi temple has been reduced to its raw materials. It no longer commands his reverence.

 

He reaches out to lay a hand on Padmé's swollen belly. This is what he reveres now: The future. His family. Obi Wan and Padmé, by their willingness to share things of such great value with him, have both proven their loyalty to him beyond a shadow of a doubt.

 

He smirks to himself, in satisfaction. He hopes there will not be any jealousy over his affections. His loved ones are both so diplomatic and reasonable, far more so than he is, he is self-aware enough to admit. In fact, now that he thinks of it, Obi Wan and Padmé have _many_ things in common, which is probably why he loves them both so well. Surely, they will manage to make some sort of arrangement- To find a solution which is fair to everyone.

 

After all: Isn't that exactly what his master promised him?

 

 

**Second Watch**

 

The Jedi have fallen- _are falling._ Their deaths ring out across the Force.

 

At first it's just a few, like a pattering of cold, stinging raindrops against the bruised surface of his soul. But as the night wares on, the losses mount, and by the time two of Coruscant's four natural moons are high and bright in the sky, he is drowning in the bitter black water of his grief. The congregation of lights to which he has belonged for his entire life is being systematically extinguished. Every death leaves him more anguished and alone than the last, until he is rocking and weeping as he has never wept in all his years of tribulation and war.

 

Obi Wan Kenobi clutches himself in abject misery, as measure by measure, hour by hour, his world grows dark.

 

 _Why?_ Why would the image of Qui Gon show him the future destruction of the Jedi Order if he couldn't prevent it? Has he somehow misinterpreted the visiting spirit's instructions? Has he failed his old master yet again-? But _that_ thought is too much to bear. He can almost taste the sand in his mouth now, almost feel the desert winds battering his face.

 

He takes a long, shuddering breath, dragging both hands through his recently washed hair. Despite the nearness of so many warm, sleeping bodies, he feels his bones throbbing with deep, metaphysical cold. He has betrayed the will of the Council by recklessly meddling with powers he doesn't understand, and it has all been for nothing-

 

But no, not for nothing! Obi Wan rubs at his salty, burning eyes, with the heels of this hands, cursing his own deplorable weakness. He can't afford to give in to despair, not when so much is at stake. He hauls himself up into a proper meditative pose, legs folded, back straight, palms open atop his thighs. They've managed to save the younglings, haven't they? The future of the Order. They can still survive this, they can still rebuild. This isn't the same as the world of his vision, it can still be salvaged-

 

 _At least you still have Anakin_.

 

Oh stars, but that selfish voice in the back of his mind is growing harder and harder to ignore! As one by one his brothers and sisters fall victim to the clones' overwhelming firepower, the horizon of the Force seems to narrow, leaving him more and more bereft and alone. Except that he's not alone, not really, not with Anakin lying less than half a meter away, his vibrant presence growing more irresistible by the minute, as every other friendly light in the galaxy is brutally snuffed out.

 

His former-padawan looks like a playful dæmon in repose: the splendor of his golden skin under the shifting violet half-light, the mute workings of his shameless lips, his pyrite-colored hair fanned out across a dark blue pillow. His dreaming mind calls out to Obi Wan's across the winding aureate cord, seeking to share in some lush, moody, mellifluous fantasy. Anakin's imagination is a rolling tableau of nonsensical images- Of beauty, and violence, and carnality, and innocence, and shivering, frothing unrealized potential.

 

Obi Wan closes his eyes against a frisson of panic. Grief, he can assimilate, but _this_ -! This is, well, rather beyond his ken. He has no idea how to receive, much less reciprocate, this sort of covetous attention. Ah, but it won't be the first time he's made an exception where Anakin is concerned. And he won't be the only one- _The world_ makes exceptions for Anakin.

 

Obi Wan Kenobi doesn't know exactly when and how Anakin Skywalker stopped being a burden foisted upon him by a dead man, and started being the single, great, consuming project of his adult life, but it's certainly fair to say that somewhere along the line he has become _attached_ to his young apprentice. This may not have been ideal exactly, but it was inevitable, and forgivable. What is occurring between them now, however, goes far beyond the boundaries he once set for himself. It is one thing to have grown fond of the boy after years of living and working in such close proximity- It is quite another thing to allow himself to be drawn into this... whatever it is. But despite himself, despite everything, he feels almost... _excited_. Keyed-up, thirsty, like a darting blade. Like a bursting-ripe fruit flower. It's like seeing the world through Anakin-colored lenses.

 

Should he be fighting these feelings? Are they not the very thing doctrine cautions against? But what if they can't be fought? No doubt they are a side effect of the peculiar bond which he and Anakin now share. That golden element tugs at him, teases him, presses itself wantonly against him. Is this all part of some plan? Could the image of Qui Gon have intended for this to happen, for them to be changed in this way? And what if it can't be undone? Obi Wan clears his mind of questions and commands himself to focus. He may not be Anakin's master anymore, according to Jedi hierarchy, but he still feels responsible for the boy, and certainly in this. _He_ has done this to them after all, _he_ has opened this can of kouhuns, and he must find a method of dealing with it one way or another.

 

His pulse is racing now, for he is truly and deeply afraid.

 

The Republic is falling. He can feel it. Everything is being torn up and turned open. Before him, Anakin and his lovely wife lie sleeping wrapped in each others arms, like the proud young parents of this brave new world, surrounded by a sea of mystic children. Padmé's own child, a blazing glory in the Force, is due to arrive any day now, thus completing the picture. And then they will go forth, the three of them, and remake this desolated galaxy in their own charming image. An image of youth, and innocence, and violence.

 

What place could there possibly be for Obi Wan Kenobi, in a world without Republic or Jedi? Will he linger on, an odd appendage to this fated little family? He supposes Anakin will probably want him around in some capacity, if only so that his body might be used as an inexhaustible numinal power source. Will they... embrace often, in this new future? Will Anakin solicit physical affection from him? Will he ever be able to refuse, or will that liquid-gold-warmth render him utterly helpless every time they touch? And if it does, will he be able to bear it?

 

But of course he will. He will better than bear it. He will relish it. For he has caught a glimpse along the path not taken. He has seen himself in his desert-exile, stripped of everything he once held sacred and dear. He has seen his former-padawan lost to the Dark Side, consigned to a waking nightmare worse than death. This is nothing when compared with _that_.

 

Yes, he will gladly submit to spend his days as Anakin's comfort-object, if it will spare them all _that_ fate.

 

 

**Third Watch**

 

Yellow dawn is breaking over Coruscant, a dawn as naïve, and new, and terrible as the explosion which began the universe.

 

She peels back the skin around her fingernails with the edge of her teeth, a filthy habit, and something she never used to do before she was pregnant. At the taste of blood, she stops, feeling briefly along her incisors with a clumsy thumb. Twisting her hands in her lap, she gazes up into the vast, ornately carved ceiling of the cavernous red granite room, and considers that the invisible heat of all their combined breaths must be pooling there, like a microcosmic layer of atmosphere.

 

Padmé Naberrie swallows down the dry knot of dread tangling in her chest and throat. She is reclining in a pile of dark blue pillows, at the center of the galaxy, in the eye of the gathering storm. She grabs numbly for her comlink, knowing she won't get reception this far underground, but anxiously flipping it on and off again anyway, watching its pale blue light wink in and out in the darkness, just for something to do.

 

The Republic is falling. She can feel it.

 

Not being able to guess the fate of all her friends and colleagues in the Senate is nothing short of torturous. Tears prick at her eyes, and moment later, the baby kicks. It has been clear for over two months now that the child within her can sense her emotions. Padmé's gaze falls upon a group of younglings, huddled together in sleep. Recalling the placid, serious faces of these Jedi children, she presses a wary palm to her belly and wonders, not for the first time, whether she is bringing into the world some aloof, numinal creature which she can never hope to understand. Or something even worse; For what if the child is like Anakin? As much as she loves her husband, she does not envy his mother.

 

Looking summarily back and forth between Anakin and Obi Wan, she wonders whether these are only two kinds of Jedi. Must they be so rigidly subdued, or else so ruinously wild? She wonders what it must be like to live with their strange, devastating powers. Perhaps it drives them all to madness of one sort or the other.

 

And now, oh _now_. They have taken things even farther than that. They have done something to... _augment_ themselves, she can tell. A charismatic aura of low-humming power surrounds each of them like a corona of starlight. It's not that she's afraid of them- No, certainly not that- But she is a little bit... wary.

 

She runs a seeking hand over Anakin's beautiful head, which is leaning heavily against her knee at the moment. She rather expects this sort of thing from her husband- But from Master Kenobi, well, she is surprised. Feeling reckless, confused, and dammit, maybe even a little angry, she inclines her head in a harsh, insistent whisper:

 

“Obi Wan?” His back is facing her, his limbs curling away. His steady, silent breaths look a little too deliberate and shallow for genuine sleep. She tries again after a moment. “Obi Wan, are you awake?” He rolls towards her, and up into a sitting position, blinking his keen, silver eyes a few times before meeting her expectant gaze.

 

“M'lady?”

 

“Hello there,” she ventures.

 

“Good morning.”

 

“We'll see.”

 

Obi Wan regards himself and the room they are in with mild perplexity. “Yes, well-” Catching sight of Anakin and the children still sleeping, he subdues his voice. “Give it the benefit of the doubt, at least.”

 

“Do you know you practically died yesterday?” she exclaims.

 

“An occupational hazard of dealing with Sith lords, I should think.” He smiles wryly, scrubbing at his beard.

 

“But Anakin saved you. I saw it,” she frowns. “He just sort of... healed you. With his touch.”

 

“Yes, I... I know,” he nods, remotely.

 

“I never realized the Jedi had such powers.”

 

“Usually,” he says, fidgeting uncomfortably, “we _don't_.”

 

“But Anakin does.”

 

“So it seems...”

 

“Perhaps,” she says, narrowing her eyes, “it has something to do with his being your Chosen One... But then, what do I know? I must bow to your expertise in religious matters, of course.”

 

“M'lady-” He hangs his head in exhaustion. “Padmé- Is there something you wish to ask me?”

 

Silence. Then:

 

“What have you done with him?” she rasps, her dark eyes wide. “Sorry, I- I didn't mean for that to sound so-” She is swallowing repeatedly and worrying her hands. “It's just that, Anakin seems... different. You both do.” And then she is almost pleading. “Just tell me it's not something bad. Tell me it's some perfectly natural Jedi-thing I just don't understand, and I won't say another word about it.”

 

“I won't lie to you,” he sighs. She has never seen the poised, implacable master Jedi look so utterly lost. “We have done something which might be considered extreme. Certainly, it is forbidden. I don't understand it much at all. And I... I cannot yet say whether it is for good or for ill.”

 

“Forbidden?” she frowns. “What do you mean?”

 

“By the Jedi Council.”

 

“But surely-” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Obi Wan, you of all people-!”

 

“Yes,” he snorts derisively, a truly uncharacteristic sound. “Me of all people. But you know...” He trails off oddly. “Times, measures...”

 

Padmé buries her face in her hands. This is the moment of truth, the moment she has been dreading. “Tell me. What is it?”

 

“The knowledge will hurt you.”

 

“Yes,” she whispers. “I know.”

 

He nods in solemn understanding. “I took Anakin into the restricted section of the Jedi Archives to find an ancient artifact recovered by my master many years ago. When we both tried to handle it, its power... bound us together. I do not know what the consequences of this will be. I do not know whether it can ever be undone. What I do know, is that I had to do _something_.” He pauses, waiting for her to meet his gaze. And then, as gently as he can manage: “I know that if I hadn't gone to Anakin when I did, he would have fallen to the Dark Side of the Force, thereby forsaking me, and you, and your child, and everything he has ever held dear.”

 

Before Obi Wan can finish his sentence, the denial is already on her lips. “No-! I don't believe that. I'll never believe that.”

 

“Padmé, it- Padmé it's true.”

 

“He would never-!”

 

“He would.”

 

“But why-?” she sobs, taking Anakin's head in her hands as if directing the question at him. “ _Why?_ ”

 

“Chancellor Palpatine offered him a way to save you from his nightmares. If I hadn't made him a... counter-offer, of sorts, he would have accepted.”

 

“ _To save me-_ ” She is weeping and clutching at the young man in her arms. Anakin, for his part, remains insensibly asleep.

 

“Yes. But the Dark Side is its own maleficent engine. Once he was in its thrall, it would have be easy for him to forget his original reason for turning.”

 

“This is all my fault,” she moans.

 

“Certainly not! How could anyone possibly blame you-?”

 

“You don't understand,” she says, crumpling in defeat. “I could have prevented this years ago. I should have told someone- I should have told _you-_!”

 

“What?” He leans forward urgently. “What are you saying?”

 

“I know how Ani can get sometimes... I've seen him at his very worst, Obi Wan. Maybe worse than you've _ever_ seen him.” She is shaking her head again and again, as tears endlessly roll down her reddening face. “When his mother died- He didn't just kill the Tusken Raiders responsible. He- he massacred them. _All_ of them. He slaughtered their entire village.” She is choking on her sobs. “ _Their children-! Even their children-! He t-told me-!_ ”

 

Obi Wan opens and closes his mouth. He tries to speak, but he is frozen in horror. He feels moved to comfort her, or even- hells, to seek comfort himself. Instead he does nothing. He is _shocked_... but he is not surprised.

 

Padmé starts when Anakin stirs in her lap. He groans softly, and turns his head, his golden lashes fluttering against her thigh. Before he can attain full wakefulness, Obi Wan instinctively reaches out to lay a hand over his eyes, sending him under again.

 

“Are you...” She presses her lips together hesitantly. “Are you somehow _keeping_ him asleep? ”

 

“I- I think so.”

 

“You can do that?”

 

“Yes.” He leans back, looking dazed. “It seems I can.”

 

“I should have told you what happened,” she says, looking away. “I know you could have helped him. I just... When he told me what he'd _done_ \- I told him it was alright. I tried to act like it was somehow normal.” She is aggressively twisting her hair between her hands, and refusing to look at Obi Wan's face. “Even though I know- I know if anyone else had confessed to something like that I- I wouldn't have wanted to _look_ at them, much less _marry_ them-! But I love him so much I-” She looks up at last, her molasses-black eyes sparkling with tears. “I know there's something wrong with him. I know he needs help. And I've stopped him from getting it. For _years_. I've just let him get worse and worse.”

 

“Anakin's choices are his own, Padmé. You mustn't blame yourself.” Obi Wan says evenly. “But yes,” he sighs. “You should have told someone.”

 

“It's madness, my love for him,” she whispers. “I don't like the person being with him has made me. All the things I swore I'd never do, I've done for him. He has made me into someone who lies, who makes excuses, who stands by when wrong is being done, and says nothing.” Her eyes narrow in contempt. “I have known politicians like that; I have spent my career opposing them. And now I am one of them.” And then, with a wild ferocity he wouldn't have credited her with: “You don't dare judge me, Obi Wan! I know you love him, too. Perhaps not quite the same way as I do, but certainly- More than you are permitted to!” She smiles caustically. “Yes, I know- I may not have the Force with me, but I have my own ways of reading people. Don't imagine for a moment I could have gotten to where I am now without them.”

 

He frowns in consideration. “Your techniques may not be so different from ours after all. It is not uncommon for those who excel in your particular field to possess some degree of Force sensitivity.”

 

“You mean like the Chancellor?” she balks.

 

“Yes, well. Not necessarily like _him_.”

 

“Obi Wan,” she looks up fervently. “What he said about- About _mutilating your souls_ -”

 

“No it's-” He shakes his head. “I assure you, it's nothing like that at all.”

 

“It's just that it- It seems so-” She struggles for a moment. “Does it _hurt_?”

 

“What? No! Not at all. If anything it... well.”

 

“Does it... feel good?”

 

“Well-” he blushes. “Yes, actually. Very- much so.”

 

“Okay,” she nods. “I was just worried, because it- I don't know how to put this, but it's like the space between the two of you has been- Horribly torn apart, and then sealed back together again. It seems... _painful._ ”

 

“Really?” He rubs at his beard. This certainly puts a new wrinkle in things. If even Padmé, with her limited Force sensitivity and complete lack of training is disturbed by the presence of this link between them- Stars, what will Master Yoda say?

 

Anakin turns his head and mumbles something incoherent, and Padmé begins absently to stroke his hair. “As long as you're both okay...” She looks up sharply. “I think maybe this is a good thing. Maybe it will make it easier for you to help him.” And then suddenly her expression shifts into something keen and fevered, and her coffee-dark eyes seem to silently exhort him:

 

_Tame his demons, and deliver him safely to me, and then maybe I'll be so grateful I'll consider sharing him with you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Anakin may have just reached new levels of delusional, but on the bright side, at least he's in good hands. Or is he...? 
> 
> I'm starting to worry that _every_ character is losing their minds.


	11. Chapter 11

It is mid-morning, and quiet.

 

After a change of clothes, some instant caf, and a numb exchange of pleasantries with Padmé, Obi Wan had recused himself, venturing upstairs with the vague intention of programing the temple beacon. If he had been surprised when Anakin, with a strange, abrupt sort of ardor, insisted on accompanying him, he hadn't protested. But now he rather wishes he had.  
  
He is standing in one of the narrow aisles between the beacon's jewel-green stacks, silently contemplating one of the most difficult and painful questions of his entire life. His surviving brethren are no doubt spread far and wide across the galaxy. The part of him that wishes to see them return home, wars with the part of him that thinks it might be more prudent for them to stay away. He leans a hand against the glassy peridot pane, momentarily closing his eyes. How will they ever recover from this? How many of them are even _left_? His chest burns with all the tears he's ever suppressed. He is no Master Yoda. What can he, Obi Wan Kenobi, possibly say to whatever remains of the Jedi Order?

 

All of this is compounded by the fact of Anakin's physical proximity, which is growing more unbearable by the second. His resonance in the Force, the sound of his breathing, his _smell_ \- The young man fills Obi Wan's senses, repelling him with his oppressive brightness, attracting him in ways he barely understands. That warm, golden flesh calls to his own flesh, promising to take away his pain and replace it with something else, something he never would have even dared to contemplate before-  
  
“What's wrong, Master?”  
  
Obi Wan steadies himself against the glowing green surface before slowly turning to face the object of his guilty, confused longing.

 

“Nothing,” he breaths.

 

“Yeah, right.” Anakin crosses his arms, adopting a stern, incredulous look which he has no doubt learned from being on the receiving end of so many lectures. “You are in pain! I can feel it as clearly as I've ever felt anything.”  
  
“I'm-” Obi Wan lowers his head miserably. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't be inflicting this on you. I will endeavor to control it.”

 

“That's not what I meant.” Anakin rolls his eyes and leans his head back in exasperation. “I was going to ask if maybe you wanted to talk about it.”

 

“What?”

 

“You know...” He steps closer, letting his arms fall to his sides. “ _Talk_.”

 

Obi Wan tries unconsciously to back away, only to collide with the beacon-wall behind him. “You've sensed what's happening,” he mouths, quietly. “What is there to say?”

 

“Whatever you feel like saying!” Anakin gestures expansively, before turning still and serious. “Listen,” he intones, “I'm just trying to help you.”

 

“There is really no need-”

 

“Nonsense. I know how hard all this is for you. But no matter how bad it gets-” He raises a hand uncertainly, before putting it back down. “We still have each other. Right?”

 

“I- Of course.”

 

“Master,” he says, his gaze burning with something new, and potent, and spiritous. “I know I've taken you for granted in the past. Too often I've let you shoulder the burden for both of us. I don't want to do that to you anymore. I want you to know how much I-” he reaches out, with more surety this time, gently brushing his mechanical knuckles against Obi Wan's arm. “How much I care for you.”

 

“Please-” Obi Wan starts, squeezing his eyes shut.

 

“It's okay,” Anakin smiles. “I know you aren't very good at this sort of thing. That's why I want to help you.” He takes another step forward, narrowing the gap between their bodies to the point of discomfiture.

 

Obi Wan looks up nervously. “Your wife knows about... this.”

 

“ _What?_ ” Anakin's panic and anger are instantaneous, like a crackle of lightning. “You _told_ her-? _What_ exactly did you tell her?! Why would you talk to her without me?!”

 

“She sensed it on her own,” says Obi Wan, simply. “I merely... explained.”

 

“Well, what-?” Anakin looks around frantically. “ _What did she say?_ Was she upset, or-?”

 

“Not at all. She seemed remarkably accepting of the idea. Only- she _was_ concerned.”

 

“Good,” he breathes. “Good. So she- She doesn't mind it, then?” He nods madly to himself, palpably relieved. A second later, he looks up, worried. “Why was she concerned?”

 

“It seems we make an obvious- and unsettling- impression in the Force. She was worried that we might be... _suffering_.”

 

“What?” he frowns. “Why would she think that?”

 

“Because...” Obi Wan gestures vaguely. “This connection between us, it- It does violence to the fabric of the Force. Apparently, from an outsider's perspective, it appears to be... hurting us.”

 

“But it's not. It doesn't hurt, it feels-” Anakin looms, looking flushed and dreamy again. “ _Wonderful_.”

 

“Yes, well-”

 

“You told her that, didn't you? You told her it's alright?”

 

“More or less, only-” Obi Wan sighs. “Anakin, I'm not sure myself whether it _is_ alright.”

 

“What do you mean?” Anakin cants his head in distress. “Doesn't it feel good for you, too?”

 

“Well-” Obi Wan blushes furiously.

 

“Oh, kriff!” The boy's eyes widen in horror. “I'm not _hurting_ you, am I-?!”

 

“No, no. Nothing of the sort. You aren't hurting me at all. In fact it- your closeness- feels... very pleasant.” Obi Wan is utterly out of his depth, and it shows. He cannot, for the life of him, seem to maintain eye contact. “Often _overwhelmingly_ so,” he breathes. “It's not that I don't- It's just that- We don't even know what this _is_ yet. It might actually be harmful to us, or to others, in ways we can't yet detect. And even if it isn't, we still have no idea what being... _bound_ to each other like this will turn out to mean, in the long term.”

 

“Of course.” Anakin shakes his head knowingly. “You are afraid.”

 

“That's not what I said.”

 

“But it's what you meant!” He smiles, tolerantly, but with obvious pity. “You are afraid of _attachment_ , even now, when it is proving to be so good for you. Oh, Master.” He advances, more deliberately this time. “It's a crime, what they've done to you.”

 

“What who's done?” Obi Wan struggles. “What do you mean?” He is fully backed against the wall now, and he is ever so subtly trembling. Desire, unfamiliar and unsettling, lances through him. Even if there _was_ somewhere for him to retreat, he doubts his body would cooperate with him. It's all he can do to stop himself from leaning in closer to the stirring warmth of Anakin's nearness.

 

And for the first time, the new bond really _does_ hurt. That brilliant shaft of starlight embedded in his chest feels like an open wound, screaming for closure as its mate approaches, aching to be joined, like the north and south poles of a magnet.

 

Finally, Anakin makes an executive decision, pressing their bodies firmly together and seizing his master's mouth in a deep, forceful kiss.

 

And it's... not what he expected.

 

He keeps waiting for passion to take hold, like it does when he is kissing Padmé, but that discreet moment, that kind of crossing-over, never comes. It's not that he doesn't find Obi Wan desirable, at least in the abstract. It's just that, there is something more abiding and elemental at work here than lust.

 

Although Anakin was the one who initiated this, he is rapidly finding himself no longer in control of it. Kissing quickly turns to petting and nuzzling, as the stinging heat between their bodies subsides into a sweet, tingling warmth. He sighs, rubbing the flat of his cheek against the pleasant scratchiness of Obi Wan's beard. With Padmé, there is always an ecstatic sense of urgency borne of the promise of completion. But this is different. The press of Obi Wan's body against his own offers no sense of momentum, no possibility of satisfaction, no escape. The urge to touch each other is like the urge to breathe. It doesn't build towards anything, but neither does it show any signs of lessening. Instead, it is a constant, regular, unending process.

 

Obi Wan, for his part, stands perfectly still, making soft, devastated little noises, until the moment when his resolve crumbles entirely, and he can no longer stop himself from throwing his arms around Anakin's neck the way he once saw Padmé do. Anakin responds by moaning loudly into his hair, projecting a cavalcade of emotions and sensations which seem to bypass his shields entirely, and strike directly at the glowing tungsten core of his soul. Obi Wan's mind is reeling, struggling for discipline, serenity, control, but it's no use. Ruthless golden fibrillae are already reaching deep inside of him, heedless of his silent pleas, to rob him of these trusty resources. He closes his eyes against the blinding star-field filling his vision, and when Anakin's face moves hotly against his own, he can feel the boy smile.

 

“It's alright, Master,” Anakin whispers, pressing a tender kiss to the shell of the older Jedi's ear. He might be disappointed by Obi Wan's clumsy, starving touches, if he didn't know it was the best the man could do to reciprocate. His master's body, though a keenly tempered deadly weapon, remains so painfully innocent in some respects, poor thing. “You don't have to be afraid,” Anakin coos. He is quite nervous himself, honestly. But his nerves are eclipsed by his eagerness to explore this, this new way of loving, of enjoying another's body, which is so very different from what he has with Padmé. “I've got you...”

 

Obi Wan opens his mouth to respond, but he can't manage more than a quiet sob as they sway gently on their feet, clutching each other as tightly as possible. It is rather as if their bodies have entered into a conspiracy together, without either of them having much say in the matter at all.

 

“Oh, _Master_ ,” Anakin gasps. “I- I love you so much.”

 

And then, just when things seem to have reached their zenith, something else happens, a great switch is flipped, and a process they didn't even realize was occurring is finally being completed. The infinite blanket of the Force is busily mending itself, darning the tear they have made it in with a powerful cosmic needle. The divine will does not tolerate such glaring imperfections for long. The rift their mortal tampering has caused must be repaired- And since Nature follows the path of least resistance, it will repair the rift directly: By simply making Obi Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker into _one_. The bleeding, golden fissure of chaos is closing, and the seam is being reinforced again and again, until the part of the blanket that was torn is even stronger than before. There is nothing they can do but struggle helplessly like insects in a web, as the very fabric of the universe is pulled tight around them, and sewn up that way, sealing them in together forever.

 

They sink to the floor, cradling each other and weeping profusely, as the pleasurable agony of oneness obliterates everything else. Minutes pass in this way, whimpering and sighing, until the green light of the beacon sears their reddened eyes, and their knees burn from kneeling.

 

Anakin is the first to regain the use of his voice:

 

“Master?” he rasps. “Are you-? Master-?”

 

“Yeh-” Obi Wan manages.

 

“ _My_ master,” Anakin growls, low and close.

 

“Yes-”

 

“Mine always?”

 

“Always-” Obi Wan mouths. “Always yours...” His body wants nothing more than to stay pressed against his companion's body forever. But he has not lost himself to this desire completely. Even now, his will-power is immense. He is still a Jedi, and there is still work to be done in the world. “Anakin,” he struggles. “Anakin, we must-” With a titanic effort, he hauls them both to their feet. “We must focus.”

 

“Yes, Master.”

 

“I _mean_ it.”

 

“I know, Master.” The boy is still rubbing insensibly against him. This won't do at all.

 

“I'm not going to leave you, Anakin,” says Obi Wan, firmly, though he can't quite keep the tremor out of his voice. “I'm never going to leave you. I just need a moment- to breath-” He grasps the boy by the shoulders and pushes, in an attempt to separate their bodies.

 

“No-!” Anakin protests, clutching at him madly.

 

And then, all of a sudden, there are footsteps approaching. Master and apprentice both freeze, in an awkward, half-embrace, as the door of the beacon-chamber opens, and the owner of these footsteps enters.

 

“Am I... interrupting something?” he says, with what, coming from anyone else, would have to be considered scorn, but which, coming from Mace Windu, passes for wryness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reserve the right to take this wacky, space-magic premise to weird and uncomfortable places.


	12. Chapter 12

Padmé is sitting at the foot of the red granite stairs, taking her morning caf (which she now regrets over-sweetening,) and looking on as some of the elder padawans lead the younger children in meditation. Notwithstanding the fact that she is liable to go into labor at any moment, she doesn't know how much more of this she can take. It's only day two of their internment, and the taste of recirculated air, combined with the feeling of powerlessness, are already beginning to drive her insane.

 

She is plugging uselessly at her comlink for what must be the fiftieth time in the past four hours, when suddenly a herd of rapidly approaching footsteps causes her to scramble to her feet in terror. _More clones? They are doomed!_

 

But rounding the corner, and posing grandly at the top of the stairs, decked in a taaffeite-purple velvet cape, and hefting a DC-15 blaster rifle, is none other than Bail Organa, followed by an entire unit of the Coruscant Security Force. “Padmé!” he bellows, from on high. “The cavalry is here!” As she gazes up at him in disbelief, he flashes her a smile of grim determination.

 

“ _Bail?_ ” she gasps. “Thank the Stars, you're alive!” Though heavy with child, she practically sprints up the massive steps to meet him. She takes one of his large, caramel-brown hands in her tiny ivory ones, half expecting him to be a mirage. At his warm, solid touch, she bites her lip to stop herself from crying. “Oh Bail, I've been sick with worry.”

 

“I wish I'd been able to contact you sooner,” he frowns. “Things have been happening very fast.”

 

“What things? I'm totally out of the loop!”

 

“I know. I'm sorry. I've been in talks with Senator Mothma. Those who remain loyal to the Republic are already organizing against the coup.” With a gentle squeeze of her arm, he holds her quivering gaze. “Democracy will survive, Padmé. It has to.”

 

“But how-” She paws at her eyes. “How did you even get in here? We barricaded everything.”

 

“Think you could keep me out of my own home did you, Senator?” The diminutive Grand Master Jedi shuffles out from among the group of officers, leaning heavily on his cane.

 

“Master Yoda!” Padmé cries.

 

“Our younglings-”

 

“All safe. Every one of them is here.” She takes a halting step towards him, clutching her belly, pearly tears spilling over her numb cheeks. “Oh, it's so good to see you! Please, tell me you know what to do. Tell me I'm not bringing this child into a lost world.”

 

“Lost, you say?” Yoda gives a little aspirated grumble.

 

“The Republic which I love is falling.”

 

“Yet hope there still is!” He taps his cane emphatically against the ringing stone. “And as for your child,” he lowers his ears, his expression momentarily softening. “A great destiny do I sense for it.”

 

Padmé holds her head aloft, and smooths her yellow dress, recalibrating her poise. “I certainly hope not,” she says sardonically. “Lately I am becoming more and more convinced that greatness is incompatible with happiness. A case in point...” She casts her gaze about recklessly, tossing her abundant mocha hair over one shoulder. Then, with a kind of giddy ire: “Anakin is the father, you know.”

 

“What?!” Bail exclaims, practically stumbling backwards in shock. “Anakin Skywalker?”

 

Yoda simply shakes his head. “Most worrisome this is. Though unsurprising.”

 

“Yes. How do you like that?” She gives a short, desperate, half-mad laugh. “I've decided I'm not lying for him anymore. The world as I know it may well be coming to an end- And I refuse to die a liar!”

 

“Padmé,” Bail admonishes his friend, “don't say such things! You aren't going to die. Senator Mothma will find a safe place for you and your child, beyond the reach of this self-styled 'Emperor.'”

 

“Well, I'm not going anywhere without Anakin,” she says emphatically, crossing her arms. “And _he's_ not going anywhere without Obi Wan. And Obi Wan won't just leave the Jedi.” She shrugs summarily. “So, here we all are.”

 

Silence falls over the cool, cavernous, underground chamber. Padmé gazes down from the stately, pink-columned mezzanine at the top of the stairs into a sea of hopeful, expectant young faces. The future, perhaps. She worries her pale hands in folds of her dress. She is still young, Force-dammit!

 

“Where _are_ those two anyway?” asks Bail awkwardly, after a moment.

 

“Sensed their presences within the temple, and sent Master Windu to find them, I did,” Yoda frowns.

 

“Alright,” Bail nods. “Who else is here?”

 

“What do you mean?” Padmé turns back around to face him.

 

“You and the children were down here during what was clearly a major attack. The outside of the temple is in ruins. And the upper levels are littered with the bodies of dead clone troopers. There must have been hundreds of them.”

 

“There were.” She presses her lips together in a grave line.

 

“And they were killed by lightsabers. By Jedi.”

 

“Anakin and Obi Wan defended us, they-”

 

“Fought off a small _army_?” He raises an eyebrow incredulously. “All by themselves?”

 

“Well-” she blanches. “Yes, actually.”

 

“That's impossible-” he says, with a nervous, barking chuckle. “I mean- Isn't it?” He stiffly turns his broad-shouldered frame, the sheen of his rich, velvet cape catching in the artificial light like dark water. He is no expert in Jedi matters, but to his understanding, the clones' sheer numbers have proven more than enough to overwhelm even some of the most experienced warriors.

 

Both humans turn to look at Master Yoda whose ancient features are scrunched in thought. “Increased immeasurably, their powers have,” he huffs. “Sensed this as soon as we arrived, I did.”

 

“Does that... _happen_?” Bail flounders. “Do Jedi just... get stronger?”  
  


“No. But methods, there are. Dangerous, unnatural, ill-advised.” He tilts his head in inquisition. “Know something about this, do you, Senator Amidala?”

 

Padmé looks guiltily down at her bleeding cuticles, and is reminded strangely of childhood, of picking berries with Sola in the Lake Country, of the taste of sugar, and the sting of thorns. “I said I wouldn't lie for him,” she sighs. “And I won't. But there's... not much I can tell you.”

 

During the planting season, when it was always hot and humid, they would spend the night in hammocks on the balcony outside, under a hush canopy of flickering blue shadows, and tell each other the same stories over and over again. She remembers an old Gungan folk tale which spoke of a great reckoning at the end of the world. The stars, it was said, were as giant xanthous plasma eggs, which would one day hatch, giving birth to dæmonic beings of pure fire. The faithful people of the water would retreat into the protection of their mother sea, without looking back. But the unfaithful, dazzled by the beauty of these creatures, would remain behind, gazing into the sky. And for their hubris, they would be reduced to ashes where they stood.

 

“If you'll just give them a chance to explain it themselves...” she implores the Grand Master.

 

“Fully intend to, I do,” he snorts.

 

Padmé drags her slippered feet against the gleaming red granite. The stairs look so much steeper on the way back down. Bail offers her his arm, but she declines. The new her laughs at danger. The new her takes nothing for granted. The new her tells the truth.

 

The stars are falling, the water is rising, the heavens are at war-

 

And she has thrown her lot in with the dæmons.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot (such as it is, ever so marginally) thickens!


	13. Chapter 13

They are gathered together in one of the temple archive's many study rooms, a cozy parlor bathed in tea-colored light, and paneled up and down with carmine plexiglass. At its center, two large, dark-leather ottomans surround a holoprojector embedded in the hematite floor. Padmé sits adroitly on one, her pale, dry hands folded primly atop her belly, a spare Jedi cloak thrown over her thin yellow shift to fend off the increasing chill. Anakin and Obi Wan share the other.

 

She looks askance at them, for they are acting very strangely. Subdued, almost narcotized. Neither of them seem to be aware of their surroundings. Obi Wan stares unseeingly down at his own hands, his brow creasing as though in pain, while Anakin leans bonelessly against him, whispering meaningless words into his master's shoulder.

 

“Obi Wan.” With a delicate sort of throat-clearing, she manages to catch his dazed, wandering eyes. “How are you both... feeling? That is-” she frowns. “Are you- alright?”

 

He regards her strangely, as if she weren't speaking plain Basic. “Yes?”

 

“Is that... a question?”

 

He blinks a few times, seeming to finally catch up with her. “Well, we are-” He looks down at the body slumped against his own, and jostles his shoulder. “Anakin, speak to her-” His voice is soft and clouded, as though he is constantly fighting against the same languor which seems to have thoroughly gripped his apprentice. “I know it feels-” He huffs in exasperation. “But at least _try_ to focus.”

 

Anakin, for his part, is too busy shamelessly drowning in bliss to dignify this with much of a response. With a muted whine, he reaches down between them, winding his arms about Obi Wan's waist and pulling him closer, all the while rubbing slow, worshipful circles against the surface of his master's consciousness. He is only dimly aware of the physical reality which exists beyond the constant, infatuated joining of their souls.

 

Chewing the inside of her cheek, Padmé leans forward intently, as though struggling to understand a difficult math problem. Uncertainly, she “reaches out,” as they say, with that pellucid, intuitive part of herself, which she now recognizes as her own minor Force sense. The light radiating from between Anakin and Obi Wan is as blinding as ever, but that tearing sense of wrongness which surrounded them before is gone, healed, replaced by this profound symbiotic warmth, this glorious oneness. _It's beautiful_ , she can't help but think. And yet, quite possibly, more frightening than ever.

 

“Ani?” she asks, trying not to sound pleading. When he fails to respond, she glances guiltily over at Master Yoda, who is observing this entire bizarre exchange from his perch on a floating tuffet above the recess in the floor. The idling holoprojector throws eerie beryl lights across his ancient features, making him appear half-sinister suspended in the center of the shadowy room.

 

“Just as I thought,” he grumbles. “Very troubling, this is.”

 

“I don't understand. They seemed _fine_ this morning,” Padmé exclaims, before turning to beseech him. “You can, I don't know... _fix_ them, can't you?”

 

“Fix them, you say?” he snorts, derisively. “Droids, they are not. Done this to themselves, they have!” He rakes a clawed hand over his head in vexation, and his keen eyes narrow as he regards the pair of wayward Jedi. “I am wondering...” he sighs. “What did you seek to accomplish by this, young Skywalker?”

 

Anakin is content to simply ignore him. Obi Wan, however, responds at once, his breath quietly shuddering, the tips of his ears dahlia-bright with mortification. “Master Yoda, please understand, it wasn't-” he falters, struggling to meet the Grand Master's gaze. “It wasn't Anakin's idea. I brought him down into the restricted archive. I invited him to... tamper with our bond. I take full responsibility.” He tries briefly to wriggle out of Anakin's grip, but it takes all of his will-power and concentration. He can either resist his body's driving, unrelenting hunger for Anakin's closeness, or he can hold a civilized conversation, but he can't do both at the same time. Unable to extricate himself from the embrace, he looks up helplessly, awaiting judgement.

 

“Hmm?” Yoda's brow lifts in consternation. “Hmm-hn. Surprised at you I am, Obi Wan.”

 

“I confess, I have... surprised myself,” he breathes.

 

“Know what you were getting yourself into, did you?”

 

“No-” He looks away, struggling valiantly for self-mastery. “I acted out of... desperation, perhaps. But I cannot say I fully regret it.” His silver eyes flash with something like conviction. “If you knew the circumstances-”

 

Suddenly, the pneumatic door slides open to reveal Mace Windu, his dark cloak trailing swiftly behind him, his large, sinewy hand outstretched. “Is this the item in question?” he demands. With a sharp inclination of his bald head, he indicates the small, metallic object rotating in midair before him. Although the dodecahedron appears to have been drained of its other-worldly power, he still refuses to touch it out of principle.

 

“Yes,” Obi Wan affirms softly.

 

“Do you have _any_ idea what this is?” Mace gnars. He doesn't really expect an answer, almost doesn't even want one.

 

As if the Chancellor's coup, and the near-destruction of the Order weren't enough for one day! An outside threat to the Jedi, no matter how great, is one thing. But to find such betrayal within! He cannot countenance it.

 

“Do you have any conception of what you have done?” he asks, his voice quivering. He looks from the furiously blushing Master Kenobi to his brazenly dozing apprentice, and his Force sense all but recoils from them. Their cuddling bodies thrum with chaos and passion, and myriad other things he cannot name, things anathema to the Jedi. They have unleashed something monstrous, even more so, he thinks, for being so seductive. “The Jedi Order-!” he starts, gathering himself, his veined temples throbbing. “The Jedi Order was founded, not only to train those gifted with the Force...” He takes a steadying breath. “But also to _limit_ them. To provide structure and discipline. Certain techniques and rituals from the time before the Order- a time of barbarism, and anarchy, and bloodshed, as you well know- are no longer practiced for a _reason_. As guardians of the Republic, we do not indulge in such reckless, selfish, unnatural uses of our powers. And I shouldn't- have- to explain- any of this,” he seethes. His round, onyx eyes are bulging with furor, his flaring nostrils at full dilation. “Skywalker! Look at me when I'm talking to you!” he thunders.

 

And sure enough, Anakin's blue gaze lifts, to the surprise of all.

 

“I think _I'll_ talk, actually,” he yawns, rolling is shoulders, and rising to his feet with a kind of languid, cat-like grace. He presses a melting kiss to Obi Wan's forehead, under which the latter practically swoons, and then turns towards Master Windu, his confident smirk barely serving to conceal a sudden, darting, knife-bright rage. “Whatever you have to say is of little consequence to me.” He advances, his voice steadily rising, his shoulders set for a fight. “You call yourselves guardians of the Republic?” he laughs darkly, a horrible, mirthless sound. “ _What_ Republic? You have failed. Failed so thoroughly, in fact, that it staggers the imagination.” His body seems to ignite from within, his voice resonating with supernatural beauty, and unspeakable power. “What good are you, _Jedi_? When it finally, really mattered, you couldn't even protect your own kind.”

 

“That's _quite enough_ , Skywalker!” says Mace. He will _not_ be cowed by this insolent boy, no matter how powerful he has become. “What you and Master Kenobi have done-”

 

“What we've _done_!?” Anakin cries. “You act like we've committed some sort of atrocity- when all we've _actually_ done is save your ridiculous little cult from extinction!” He looks down sharply, and then back up again, eyes narrowed in bare contempt. “Oh, you're welcome for that, by the way,” he spits.

 

Obi Wan tries to say something, to mollify the boy, but finds he can't summon the breath. His chest constricts painfully.

 

The Darkness! It floods across their golden bond, seizing his soul with its slippery, cool fingers, whispering to him in a thousand horrible, dissonant voices- With a strangled gasp, he doubles over, refusing to succumb to its power. This is one place he will not allow Anakin to drag him. He looks back up at the confrontation in progress, desperately fighting to form words.

 

“By the Stars,” Mace hisses in disgust. “After all this time... Have you truly learned _nothing_?”

 

“ _Silence!_ ” Anakin screams. The air crackles as though with plasma, and the plexiglass walls seem to vibrate with his terrible, unrestrained fury. “You do not rule me anymore! I have _transcended_ you.”

 

Obi Wan holds himself, shaking with agony, as his vision begins to blur. He covers his ears in a vain attempt to drown out the voices. He refuses to answer the call of maleficence. He refuses to allow its swirling, caliginous energies to make their home in his soul. And so they build and build inside of his muscles, like lactic acid in the absence of oxygen, poisoning his body from the inside out. He cannot separate himself from Anakin any more than he can reach into his belly, and rip out is own throbbing organs. There is no escape. No way out except surrender.

 

But he knows this about the Darkness: One _always_ has a choice.

 

“Anakin!” Padmé shrieks, her clear, treble tone piercing Obi Wan's consciousness. In an instant, she is at his side, cradling his wilting form in her slender arms. The sleeves of the Jedi cloak, much too big for her, are pushed up to the elbows, and somehow, he finds strength in this charming little detail. “Anakin, stop this!” she commands. “You are hurting him! Stop this now!” Her deep brown eyes glow like burning coals.

 

“Listen to her!” hails Mace. “Look at Master Kenobi-!”

 

But Anakin's paroxysm has reached the point of nigh impenetrability, and he is far beyond reasoning with. “Do not speak to me of him!” he roars. “ _You will not take him away from me!_ ”

 

And then, at that precise moment, Mace Windu makes a critical error: He takes a step towards the wild-eyed, effervescent youth. “Skywalker-”

 

“ _Stay back!_ ” Anakin throws up his hands, and searing tongues of golden energy leap from his fingertips, driving the master Jedi to the ground, and sending the dodecahedron clattering like a skipping stone across the metal floor. One moment, Windu is his severe, unyielding, fearless self, and then the very next, he is a tangle of motionless limbs, awkwardly sprawled over the shallow, polished hematite steps.

 

Anakin stumbles backward, with an abortive, choking gasp, stunned into silence by his own mostly unintentional display of power. He turns at once to see his beloved master recoiling from him in pain, his precious wife gaping at him in mute horror-

 

And bolts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's really challenging to write a scene that incorporates multiple characters with a wide range of personalities and motivations, all engaged in simultaneous conversation, which still flows naturally and doesn't feel cluttered. 
> 
> So I won't try.


	14. Chapter 14

A moment of perfect stillness passes over the room, like the shadow of a cloud over a noonday sun.

 

Obi Wan closes his eyes as the churning, pitchblende storm of the Dark Side recedes from his mind, leaving him gasping with emptiness. The press of Padmé's cool hand on his burning forehead feels like it's the only thing keeping his brains from spilling. She might be speaking to him, but he can't pick out any words, just a close, hush tone, a puff of breath on his face, the rockrose scent of her hair. As he tilts his head back under the hanging lamplights, the insides of his eyelids are stained hot-orange like glowing iron.

 

“Obi Wan,” she murmurs. “Look at me.”

 

He blinks as the smooth, milky opal of her face swims before him.

 

“Anakin-?” he breathes.

 

“Gone,” she says, with a terse flick of her dark eyes. “Are you okay?” she asks. She is poised over him with all the alacrity and dauntlessness of a battlefield medic, putting a hand to the side of his face, gingerly stroking his brow with her thumb. He sighs under her delicate touch, so expertly calibrated to exactly what he needs, so unlike Anakin's assaultive pawing. He wonders, briefly, if this is what it's like to have a mother- before ruthlessly quashing the notion. These sorts of errant thoughts have been escaping his defenses with disturbing frequency as of late.

 

“I'm fine,” he whispers, avoiding her eye.

 

“Fine, he says! Hmmph.” The two of them turn to see Master Yoda, head bowed in concentration, a tiny clawed hand raised diagnostically over the prone form of Mace Windu. “Fine indeed! A fine mess you have made! Qui Gon Jinn it was, who put you up to this?”

 

“Y-yes,” Obi Wan wavers. “How did you-?”  


“Communed with his spirit, I have,” says Yoda. He gazes down at the cool, cloudy, silver-black tiles beneath his scraping feet, quietly grumbling in a manner understood only by himself. “Discovered the way of the Whills, he has. Learned the secret of immortality.” He looks up sharply. “Made him arrogant, this success has. And now, seek to involve the living he does, in more reckless experimentation.”

 

Obi Wan shuffles halfway down the stairs, crossing his numbly quavering arms over the hollow ache in his chest. “Mace-?”

 

“Recover, he will,” says Yoda, as he gently touches a single blunted talon to the forehead of his fallen colleague, sending the warrior-priest into a fitful healing trance- chest shuddering, chapped lips parted, nostrils flaring like a krayt dragon. His dark face and hands are marred by jagged, blistering, pinkish burns which shine sickly in the halflight. “Pain, your apprentice has caused. But no permanent damage.” The word _yet_ hovers in the air. “Retrieve young Skywalker, you must.”

 

“Yes, I- Of course I will,” says Obi Wan contritely. “He can't have gone far-” Then, blushing furiously: “I can _feel_ him.”

 

“Hmmnn...” Yoda rumbles, squinting thoughtfully into the middle-distance. “Perfectly fused together you are,” he muses, rubbing his chin. “A testament to the strength of your bond, it is, that destroy both your souls, the joining did not. Suffer greatly did you, in the process?” He quirks his ears, his curiosity quite genuine, bordering on morbid.

 

“N-no,” Obi Wan falters, a childlike look of bewilderment hijacking his usually brave face. “There was no s-suffering. It was- It felt-” He swallows thickly, looking down at his boots. “It felt _good_ -”

 

“Subdue him, you must!” Yoda interrupts him, suddenly sounding impatient. “A danger he has become, to himself and others. Grown, his powers have, beyond his ability to understand or control them.”

 

As if to underscore this ominous pronouncement, a hot, low, fizzling sound cuts through the air as the hanging lamplights begin to flicker, throwing the room into a dizzying alternation of amber and violet, before plunging it into beryllium darkness. Many levels below the floor, a backup generator hums to life, powering on an array of harsh emergency florescents. Obi Wan turns his face into his shoulder in anguish, as the unforgiving brightness punishes his overtaxed senses. It's quite like the end of play, he thinks, when the house lights come up, shattering the illusion. _Here you are, back in reality. Now what are you going to do?_

 

“This is all my fault,” he says, quietly. “Anakin was in trouble, and I was merely trying to help him.” He hugs himself, knees threatening to give out under the gravity of his guilt. “I thought- I didn't know-”

 

“Stop it,” says Padmé, and all at once she is right beside him, nimble fingers finding his wrists and turning them over in a kind of benediction. “I won't hear you blame yourself for this.” Her black eyes are starry with unshed tears, but her jaw is set with purpose. “Anakin is the one who should be sorry. You've been nothing but helpful and kind to him. For kriff's sake, Obi Wan!” She grips his forearms harder, rattling him in frustration. “I am his wife, and even I haven't- _been there_ for him the way you have. You've given him _everything_. And if he doesn't appreciate that, well then-” She pauses, cheeks reddening with emotion. “Bring him to me, and I'll _make_ him appreciate it!”

 

Obi Wan sighs. “That's hardly-”

 

“Listen! What he did to Master Windu-” she huffs, rummaging around for words. “That was _violence_. Uncalled for- Unacceptable- Things can't go on like this! He must learn- He must be made to understand-” She bites at her bloodless lip in vexation, briefly ducking behind the river of her hair. “This ends right now!” she cries, jabbing at nothing with one index finger. “When my child is born, it will have a father who knows how to behave like a civilized person... Or it will have no father at all!” It is obvious, as she crosses her arms over her breast, burying a sob, how much it kills her to say these words. The righteous fire has left her eyes, leaving behind only a soot of sadness.

 

“Oh, _Padmé._ ” Obi Wan reaches out, shyly but earnestly, to touch her arm, scarcely able to comprehend her devastation, but filled with admiration at her strength. “Padmé, I- We _will_ set things right, I promise you.”

 

“Make not promises in haste, Obi Wan,” says Yoda, striking the tile with his cane. “Ask yourself first whether they can be kept. Confront young Skywalker, you must. But beware: A dark path, he has begun to walk. And bound to him, you are. Your destinies will be the same.”

 

“Yes,” Obi Wan nods solemnly. “I know.”

 

“Do you _truly_ know? Realize what is in store, do you?” Yoda snaps. The fall of the Order has taken it's toll, even on him. He looks up with a kind of stark weariness and exasperation which only days ago he probably would have hidden. “Fused together, your souls have become,” he says, scrunching and unscrunching his face in wrinkly portent. “Uncontrollable feelings of attachment, you will experience towards each other. Too powerful for _any_ being, no matter how well-trained in the Jedi arts, to resist. Fight these feelings, you cannot- Therefore, only one question remains: Anchor him in the Light, will you? Or be drawn by him into the Darkness?”

 

“Tell me, Master,” pleads Obi Wan, lowering his head in deference.

 

“Asking _you_ I was!” Yoda sputters, eyes bulging. “A rhetorical question it was not!”

 

And so, without further discussion, he goes.

 

The power-outage has plunged the temple corridors into total blackness, with only intermittent warning lights to mark the essential entrances and exits. But Obi Wan would know every centimeter of this building if he were deaf and blind. This has been home for as long as he can remember. Spreading, palatial, cold, marble _home._

 

He reaches out along the golden cord, only to be met with a painful burst of static. He can sense only Anakin's general location- his thoughts and feelings are a brumal blur. Could the boy be blocking him, somehow? To wound him, perhaps. Or else- could it be?- to protect him from the Darkness.

 

He rounds a corner into another hallway. His vision is filled with nothing but blackness and constellations of red LEDs. His heart is pounding so hard it hurts. But dread and anticipation are just two sides of the same holodisk.

 

He is nowhere near any windows, and yet he almost fancies he can feel a fresh breeze whispering against his heated face, tossing his damp hair. He gasps, unable to stifle a shiver of pleasure as cool, spectral fingers seem to gently seize his throat and sweep down over his chest. There is no suffocating pain this time, but the Darkness is unmistakable, even in one of it's more... _whimsical_ guises.

 

 _Anakin?_ he tries sending into the void.

 

_Hello, Master._

 

He is totally unprepared for the violent joy this response kindles in his own heart. Every cell in his body seems to sparkle with feeling. The mind-voice of his beloved former-padawan rings with the promise of renewed oneness, an invitation which he is powerless to refuse.

 

_Oh, Anakin-_

 

_Come closer, Master._

 

At the end of the hallway, he reaches a very large pneumatic door, or rather, a hole in the wall where a pneumatic door _would_ be. With the power out, it wouldn't have opened automatically- but it's been torn from its durasteel frame and cast aside, as if by a creature with hands the size of speeders. He steps through the entrance, emerging into a huge, echoing hangar-bay filled with various light spacecraft. The vulcanized rubber floor muffles the frantic temblor of his footsteps as he traipses across it in singular pursuit of his goal.

 

“There you are,” says Anakin, emerging from behind a ship which he appears to be working on. He stands under a massive spotlight in the middle of the blackness, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “I knew you'd come,” he smiles. He has never looked so cruelly beautiful before.

 

Obi Wan takes a few steps forward, penetrating the round egg of light, letting the circle enclose them. “Anakin-” he starts, only to be silenced by a bruising kiss. Strong arms wrap around his body, and then he is drowning.

 

“Shhh...” Anakin whispers into his ear, pressing their faces together. “I know what this is. They sent you after me,” he coos, happily carding his fingers through his master's lush hair.

 

“No, Ana-”

 

“Shhhhh... It's okay. I knew this would happen.”

 

He steps back, letting Obi Wan stumble away as he drops from his arms. And in a fervid, claustrophobic voice, he begins to speak. “The Chancellor used to say that the day would come when you would be forced to chose between me and the Jedi. And for years, I have lived in fear of that day, and that choice. But today, I'm no longer afraid.” His blue eyes are wild with covetousness, his rosy lips twitching their way in and out of a hundred facial expressions. “Because you don't _have_ a choice anymore,” he says, simply. And then, with an impossible combination of dark satisfaction and innocent wonder which is so heartbreakingly, characteristically _Anakin_ , that it almost makes Obi Wan weep:

 

“You are _compelled_ to love me now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In cannon, Anakin's behavior turns so extreme so quickly, and Padmé is so traumatized by it, that I don't think she ever actually admits to herself just how serious things have gotten. The whole “come away with me and raise our child” line reads as pretty delusional after we've just seen him slaughter a room full of children. 
> 
> Here, I've given her some room to breathe, and exercise her critical faculties- And she's starting to realize just how truly psycho Anakin is, and what an enabler she's been. It's a bitter pill for her to swallow. But let's just say she's isn't going to take any crap from anyone anymore, especially where her babies are concerned.


	15. Chapter 15

And it's true.

 

The words knock the breath from Obi Wan's body. It's almost as if Anakin merely saying them has somehow caused them to manifest in reality. Sounds burst, and colors throb, and the Force sings with purpose as they leave his mouth.

 

_You are compelled to love me now._

 

Obi Wan gasps, as a cosmic tuning fork is struck upon his soul, causing his entire being to ring with a single, clarion note. He clutches himself as though gouged in the chest, shutting his eyes and lowering his head against an onslaught of raw feeling beyond anything he's ever experienced before. His carefully constructed mental shields might as well be made of flimsiplast for all the good they are doing him. It's only a kind of inertia which keeps him on his feet.

 

And for the first time, the golden power speaks to him, in a voice without words:

 

 _Love this boy_ , it says. _Completely_. _Forever._

 

He staggers backward, out of the yellow ambit of the spotlight, and into the grainy violet darkness which surrounds them. His mind is a blazing white-hot void. The divine music fills him, threatening to rend his body apart with its vastness. _Is this love?_ he wonders, as he struggles for breath.

 

Anakin remains standing in the middle of the spotlight, his eyes flashing, his color high. A pair of mechanic's goggles sit high on his head, pushing his sweaty hair back from his face, their tinted lenses fogging with the heat of him. “I used to torture myself, wondering whether or not you really cared for me,” he says. His smile is one of truly unmoored joy. “And now, at last, I know it for certain! The Jedi can never take you away from me. They no longer control us. It doesn't matter what they say,” he rambles. “They are no match for us.” In Anakin, vainglory and desperation have always looked about the same.

 

Trembling, Obi Wan lifts his chin to regard this handsome, frothing, savage creature before him. And his breath comes in shallow gasps as love, love beyond all reason and measure swells within him, bruising the inside of his chest. “ _Ana- Anakin-_ ” he mouths. " _Please-_ ” His poor mortal heart is simply not big enough to contain this kind of emotion. Tears are pouring down his burning face. And again, the music shakes him:

 

 _You must protect him_ , it insists. _Even from himself._ _You promised you would. You promised!_

 

He presses the heel of a hand to his mouth, tasting salt, swallowing gall. Is this the suffering Yoda spoke of? He feels as if his soul is being emptied out, as if every last garnet-bright drop of love is being cruelly wrung from him. He was already prepared to die for Anakin- How much more of himself can he possibly be called upon to give?

 

These are drowning thoughts- They won't do him any good. He scrubs at his beard, finally stilling himself. He came here with a mission. “Anakin,” he intones. He is pleased to find himself sounding relatively authoritative, if a little out of breath. “Just what in the galaxy do you think you are doing?” The love continues to pulse relentlessly inside of him- He can't fight the feeling, he realizes, but he can work _with_ it. He is forced to adore the boy, but he is not forced to cater to his every mad, half-formed whim. Protect Anakin from himself? An irresistible mandate, spoken directly into him by an ancient power beyond his comprehension. But one he will carry out gladly.

 

Anakin takes a step forward, peeling a red leather mechanic's glove from his flesh hand. “Don't cry, Master,” he says, reaching out vaguely. “Everything is going to be perfect now, you'll see.” He is blinking too much, vibrating with excitement. “Padmé and I used to talk about it- About running away together, and leaving all of this behind. And now we finally can! We'll go somewhere safe, where we can raise the baby. And we'll bring you with us-”

 

“No, Anakin.”

 

“What?” he frowns, genuinely taken aback. “What do you mean, _no_?”

 

“I took a solemn vow to serve the Jedi Order, and the Republic,” says Obi Wan. “And so did you. We are not going anywhere.”

 

“Oh, Master,” Anakin laughs, as if this is all just a silly misunderstanding. “Don't you see? You have nothing to fear from the Jedi anymore. Can't you feel this change in both of us? This _power_?” He deliberately touches the golden cord, sighing in pleasure as its warmth floods his entire body, saturating his muscles with its bright energy, coating his bones. “You said it would allow us save Padmé, and you were right. I believe we _can_ save her. But why stop there? We can do anything now,” he declares, with a sort of playful, mock-grand toss of his head. “And no one can stop us. Not even Master Yoda.”

 

Obi Wan exhales through his nose as his own body thrums with power and pleasure in response to Anakin's mental caress. Oh hells, it feels so good! He has to actually physically restrain himself from reaching out and pulling the boy against him- pressing their mouths together- drinking that beauteous nectar directly from the golden font-

 

“I do not fear Master Yoda,” he says, recovering himself. “I respect him. There is a vast difference. I am going to stay here, and help him, not because he demands it, but because it is the right thing to do.” His next words are a struggle: “If you choose to abandon your duty now, I will not follow you. I cannot speak for your wife of course, but I have reason to suspect she would say the same.”

 

“But- Don't you want to be with me?” The boy's confusion is so _sincere._

 

“No, Anakin,” Obi Wan shakes his head. “Not like this.” His whole being rebels against the notion. _You can't let him go! You love him, you need him, he is everything!_ He grasps for his center. He won't be undone by this. He shouts back at voice in his head, _This is for his own good! I am protecting him, just as I promised!_

 

“I-I don't understand,” Anakin stammers, raking through their bond in desperate search of answers. “You love me! You _love_ me! I can feel it now! It's real!” He rubs his tearing eyes against the inside of his forearm in anguished disbelief. “You want me! You finally, really, truly want me! I can see the images in your mind. I know you want to hold me in your arms!”

 

“Yes,” Obi Wan admits, lowering his gaze. “At this moment- I want that- more than I think I've ever wanted anything in my entire life.” When he looks back up again, it is with durasteel conviction in his silver eyes. “But this isn't about what I want. It's about what is _best_.”

 

“What are you saying?” Anakin whispers dangerously.

 

“You cannot continue to behave like this. Especially if you are going to be a father.”

 

“What-!” He tears the goggles from around his head and throws them viciously to his feet, where they shatter dully upon the hard rubber floor. “What do you mean, _if-_?!”

 

“Padmé loves you dearly,” Obi Wan sighs. “But even she has a limit. And if she decides that you are unfit to raise her child- Well, I for one will support her right to withhold custody from you.”

 

“You can't- She wouldn't-!” Anakin cries hoarsely. His face is bright red, and wearing that horrible, twisted expression which has begun to haunt Obi Wan's dreams. The Darkness is rolling off of him at punishing, subwoofer frequencies.

 

“I very well can, and she very well might.”

 

“ _But why-?_ ”

 

“Because your recent actions have confirmed her worst fears about you. Until you are able to recognize what you have done, and demonstrate to her satisfaction that it won't happen again, I think it would be more than reasonable of her to-”

 

“What have I done to her? What are you talking about?!”

 

“Please, try to understand her perspective,” Obi Wan takes a cautious step forward. “She is deeply worried about you. And so am I.” His tone is gentle, but firm, as he drives the knife all the way in: “She told me what happened when your mother died. She told me what you did.”

 

At this, Anakin freezes in place, like a frightened animal. He glances over his shoulder, and then back at Obi Wan again, as if he is preparing to make a run for it. Instead, he collapses onto the workbench behind him, taking his head his hands. “ _No no no no_...” he moans. “Why would she tell you that-? Why would she try to turn you against me-?” He sits up, gasping, only to crumple again with a sob. “Doesn't she know I need you to love me, too?” He is bent all the way over, screaming these words into his own lap. “Doesn't she want me to be happy?” he wails. “You said- I thought- She wasn't jealous- She didn't mind-”

 

“She was merely being honest with me, Anakin. She and I have recently come to... an understanding. There is no jealousy between us- Quite the contrary, in fact. We are united by our mutual desire to help you.”

 

“To help me-?” he looks up sharply. “I would be perfectly fine if you- if the _two of you_ weren't making this so difficult,” he growls. But in an instant, his expression turns from anger back to despair. “She looked at me- with such _fear_ , Obi Wan. I don't understand it. Doesn't she realize- Doesn't she _know_ I would never, ever hurt her or her child?”

 

“She saw what you did to Master Windu. I daresay it gave her pause.”

 

“What does that old fool have to do with anything?” he hisses.

 

“You hurt him, Anakin.” Obi Wan approaches the workbench, arms crossed, and poses sternly over his brooding apprentice.

 

“He made me angry,” says Anakin flatly.

 

“He said some words you didn't like, and so you immediately resorted to physical violence.”

 

“Why are you so worried about that?” He tilts his head back in exasperation. “I keep trying to tell you, there is no Jedi Council hanging over us anymore.”

 

Obi Wan's arms drop numbly to his sides. “ _A_ _nakin_ -” He shakes his head in sorrow and disbelief. “Oh, _Anakin_.”

 

In the shadowy theater of his memory, he riffles through scenes from the war- Things he should have taken more seriously. Things he should have followed up on. It was one thing for Anakin to have lost control, to have gone a little too far in the heat of battle. But the callous comments, the inappropriate questions, alone in their tent at the end of the day- that was another thing entirely. He had always just assumed the boy was joking. Trying to get a rise of his poor old master. Trying shock him, or wound him in some way, by pretending not to understand what it meant that they lead such violent lives.

 

With a horrible, plummeting feeling, Obi Wan is forced to entertain the possibility that perhaps Anakin wasn't pretending at all. Perhaps he really _didn't_ understand.

 

“Listen to me,” he begins again, softly, reaching with a trembling hand as if to cup Anakin's face, but stopping just short of actual contact. “It wasn't wrong for you to hurt Master Windu because he is member of the Jedi Council.” He holds the boy's leaping, reveling azure gaze as steadily as he can. “It was wrong, because he is a sentient being who is capable of suffering.”

 

“Oh,” says Anakin. His body slackens. He has done something wrong. Not wrong because it was against the rules, but wrong by its very nature. “ _Oh_ ,” he repeats, because this really, truly, hadn't occurred to him. He had only been thinking about the situation in terms of who was going to get their way. He hadn't really bothered to wonder which way was actually _best_. He drags both of his hands through his hair in consternation. “It was an accident,” he huffs. “I'm sorry.”

 

“It is Master Windu's forgiveness which you ought to seek. Not mine.”

 

“But- I can't!” he cries, instantly back on his feet. “I never want to speak to him again- I hate him!”

 

“You're upset right now. You don't mean that.”

 

“I _do_ mean it!” he gnars. It takes so little to bring the Darkness back to a rolling boil. The more often he touches it, the easier it comes. “If I ever have to listen to another one of his insufferable lectures- I swear- I'll tear him in half next time!” He pivots on his heel and begins to furiously pace the diameter of the spotlight. “Yes, I know how that sounds. But I don't care! You'll still love me, no matter what I say. No matter what I do-” He stops mid-stride and turns around with a rapacious grin. “You literally can't help it,” he says. Before, he had been lashing out in desperation. Now, he is being downright evil. “It's like- some sort of magic spell, or something.”

 

Indeed, Anakin's verbal invocation seems to work like magic. Right on demand, Obi Wan is forced to lower his head as another brutal wave of love comes crashing over him. He is certain the next one will bring him to his knees. “And- what about Padmé?” he croaks, closing his eyes against the storm, and somehow managing to hold his ground.

 

“I'll find a way to deal with her, too.”

 

“ _Deal_ with her? You mean take her prisoner?”

 

“No!” Anakin stamps his foot. “Shut up! I don't know-!” He looks from the ship to his own hands, shaking with a dozen contradictory impulses. “I just need to get away from here-”

 

“And go where, exactly?” Obi Wan cries. It's just too much- _Too much-_ His heart is bursting with desire. He needs to seize this young man, this beautiful little monster, and smother him with his arms, and scream directly into his ear, _Let me help you-! I need to help you-! I love you more than life itself-! Why won't you let me help you-?_ But instead:

 

“What do you _want_ , Anakin?”

 

“I don’t-” Anakin claws at his freshly tearing eyes. “I don't know yet- _I need time to think-!_ ”

 

“It is usually prudent to think _before_ one acts.”

 

“Stop it-! Stop lecturing me! _Just stop everything-!_ ”

 

Obi Wan snorts mirthlessly, exhausted. Clearly, negotiation and reasoning are at an end. Time to try a different tack. “No, Anakin,” he says. “ _You_ stop it. Stop avoiding responsibility for what you've done. Stop lashing out at people who are only trying to help you.” And then, without quite realizing what he is doing, Obi Wan utters his own series of magic words: “ _Stop it right now._ ”

 

Anakin makes a soft, strange, gurgling sound, and looks up suddenly, eyes wide, as his own soul is struck by that irresistible music.

 

 _Submit,_  it purrs, warm and sweet and totally unyielding. _Obey your master._

 

“What-?” He stumbles backward with a jolt. “What _is_ this?”

 

_You pledged yourself. You promised!_

 

His eyes dart around in confusion, before settling on Obi Wan. “What are you doing to me-?!” he screams.

 

“Nothing,” Obi Wan frowns in concern. “I'm not doing anything. What's wrong?”

 

_It is good to obey master. Being with master means you are safe, means you are home._

 

“Ah-!” Anakin chokes, crazily thrashing in place, as though wrestling an invisible opponent.

 

_Your pride is like that of a child. Relinquish it. It can only hurt you now. You will be made to obey. _

 

The vain, spiteful, petulant part of him wants to fight it. But another part of him, a secret, wounded part of him is tired of fighting- Tired of politics and war- Tired of not understanding the difference between right and wrong the way everyone else seems to- Tired of having to make his own decisions-

 

_Once you are under master's control, you will be free. Free from the terrible burden of responsibility. Free from anger, and jealousy, and avarice, and fear._

 

He snarls in frustration at the voice in his head, bitterly unwilling to accept this. But the moment he looks up, and catches sight of his master's face- the moment those wise, gentle, caring eyes alight upon his own- the struggle is over. His heart sounds a long, golden note, tuning itself to his master's heart, bringing them into perfect sync.

 

“Yes,” he whispers. He takes a wandering step forward, flushed and breathless. “I accept.”

 

“You accept _what_?” Obi Wan blinks, baffled.

 

“I accept you as my master,” says Anakin, slowly looming closer and closer- “I obey your every command.”

 

“That's not- Are you- joking?”

 

He cants his head in distress. “Please!” His voice is pitched upwards in desperation. “I know I've done something wrong. I realize that now- But at the time I _didn't_ know- I couldn't tell-” He holds out a beseeching hand. “I don't want this to keep happening! I can't-” he turns away, momentarily speechless with anguish. “I can't bear for Padmé to look at me with fear,” he confesses quietly. “But I don't know how to avoid it. I don't know what to do. I need you to _tell_ me what to do, Master,” he says, as if this is a perfectly reasonable solution. And then softer, lower, with a little more fervor: “I need you to take control of me.”

 

“Anakin, what are you _talking_ about?” Obi Wan frowns, thoroughly disturbed by this last statement. And yet- _Oh, Stars_ \- It's happening again. He can feel his own heart swelling with elation at Anakin's words. _This is good, this is right_ , says the music. _Take him in your arms, and see how perfectly you fit together now._

 

And then they are intertwined, rubbing, and kissing, and moaning, and it's impossible to tell who initiated this because the last few seconds are redacted from his memory.

 

“Ana-” he gasps, overwhelmed at suddenly finding himself chest to chest with another warm, solid body. “ _Anakin._ ”

 

“Mmm... Yes, Master?” The boy gives a soft, chiming laugh, right up against the threading pulse in Obi Wan's throat.

 

“ _My Anakin-_ ” Obi Wan sighs, eyes closed, lips quivering. And there is nothing, nothing in the galaxy for him but love and golden light. He reaches up to cup the back of Anakin's neck, bringing their foreheads together, and they stare into each others' eyes as the Oneness reasserts itself, more powerfully than ever. “ _My boy- Almost lost you-_ ” He begins to weep gently. “ _Almost lost you to him-_ ”

 

“Never, Master!” Anakin insists. “He will never have me!” He lowers his eyes in shame. “I'm sorry I was such a fool- I'm sorry I ever considered a single thing he said-” He presses a velvety kiss to Obi Wan's brow, a seal of absolute loyalty and devotion. “I am with _you_ now- As I should have been all along.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess our heroes are hugging it out. 
> 
> Also, the space gods are getting downright _coercive_.
> 
> If questionable mental health strategies and iffy power dynamics make you uncomfortable, please turn back now. It's only going to get weirder.


	16. Chapter 16

The inside of the hangar bay is like the womb of the Nabooan sea goddess, who coaxes each quicksilver globule of fish-germ to fruition in her dark, warm, rushing, vastness. Here, matters of galactic consequence seem so abstract and far away. The beating of hearts and the rising and falling of chests are a novel delight. And life is pink, and raw, and salty, and new.

 

Anakin blinks his eyes open. He can feel the solid rubber floor beneath his feet, hear the distant hum of the backup generator, smell the bitterness of motor oil and the astringency of hyperdrive nanofluid. But these familiar elements strike him strangely. A new truth has been born in his soul, in light of which everything else in the world must now be viewed:

 

Obi Wan is his master.

 

This is not so much a matter of clerical hierarchy as it is an article of nature, a new law of physics, dropped like a line of code into the program of reality. It seems impossible that it could ever have been otherwise. And yet, he remembers. It almost _was_ otherwise:

 

_The Council didn't want you to train me-  Almost didn't let you have me-  You had to plead with them-_

 

They are half-embracing, half-wrestling, seizing fistfuls of each others' clothes and hair, and kissing everywhere at violent random.  And it feels good, painfully good, but also awkward and strange, because they are still fighting it, still fighting each other.

 

_Why didn't they want us to be together? What were they so afraid of? Couldn't they see that we belong-_

 

There is too much friction between their souls, and as they rub haphazardly against each other, they are gathering too much energy, beginning to glow, like an iron in a fire. They haven't gotten the hang of this yet. They don't know how to contain or control it, this power, and so it just builds and builds chaotically, between them and within them, until they are both forced to let go.

 

Reeling back, they begin to circle each other, over and over, wearing a kind gravity well in the Force. They watch and wait, enthralled by each other's beauty and warmth, but afraid to touch, afraid of what will happen. They are locked in a binary orbit, like the twin suns Tatoo I and Tatoo II, endlessly basking in each others' light.

 

Obi Wan holds up trembling hands in self-defense, knowing that Anakin is liable to tackle him again at any moment. His skin is brightly flushed beneath his copper hair and beard, making his usually gray eyes appear much greener. He looks... _stirred_ , in a way and to a degree that Anakin has never really seen him before. The line of his body is a jot of tension and readiness- He wants this, he _wants_ , but he doesn't know how- His lips are parted softly in confusion and wonder.

 

Anakin's gaze is riveted upon those lips. His heart quickens with the knowledge that he is bound to obey each and every command which might fall from them. He has pledged himself, he can't take it back now. He gulps for air and shakes his head, feeling the onset of panic. All his life, he has known confinement of one sort or another. He has had walls, and fences, and columns, and bars, and binders put around him. But this is different; These restraints are _inside_. The brilliant golden threads are so tightly, seamlessly woven into the fibrous red tissue of his muscles, that with naught but a gentle, painless tug they can make him do practically anything. Whatever Obi Wan says, he won't be able to resist. Won't even try. Won't even _want_ to try. He is utterly beholden to that voice, those lips-

 

“Anak-” they start to say. But before they can pronounce a single word which might save him or doom him, he silences them with a desperate kiss.

 

And this time, he manages to do it right. This time, arms close around waists, and mouths work slowly and sweetly, and the fiery golden nova is a steady pulsing thing between their chests, a burden made light by being shared.

 

Obi Wan slackens with a quiet groan as Anakin's tongue swipes playfully over his palate. He has never been kissed like this before. This is just so total, so new. He can scarcely comprehend the way his body is reacting to these touches. A surge of possessiveness he hardly recognizes in himself causes him to squeeze Anakin tightly, pulling the younger man's torso flush against his own. Anakin responds eagerly to being handled this way, turning his face against Obi Wan's shoulder, imbibing his smell, glorying in their physical closeness. And at last their bodies are fitted gently but firmly together, forming a fulcrum about which the Force itself seems to rush and pivot.

 

“Mmmm... This is... Don't stop...”

 

“What should we-? Oh, _haja_ , Anakin, what should we-?”

 

“I think that's up to you,” Anakin laughs dizzily. “ _You_ are the master, after all. I can't- That is- _Mmmm..._ ” He buries himself in Obi Wan's chest, shaking with silent giggles. “You have to take the lead.”

 

“But I don't-” Obi Wan protests. “I don't know _how_.”

 

And he doesn't, really. In his capacity as learned priest and deadly warrior, he has seldom had reason to bother with such mundane, worldly matters as kissing. Anakin is indisputably the more experienced between the two of them.

 

But he finds he has little choice. This is all part of his role now, as Anakin's master. It is his responsibility to take care of his dear boy, to find out what he likes and how to please him. His movements are halting and clumsy, but he reckons he is beginning to understand the spirit of the thing. He has no particular skill, but effort alone seems to count for a lot, if Anakin's appreciative purring and nuzzling are any indication.

 

“You'll know what to do. Just trust your body. A lot of it's... built in.”

 

Obi Wan chuckles, rubbing Anakin's back experimentally. “When will you learn,” he sighs, “that people aren't like droids?”

 

Anakin opens his mouth to respond, only to slump forward, speechless, when the touches suddenly change direction and tempo. Obi Wan may be relatively naïve in matters of the flesh, but he is a quick study, and a cunning foe, in this as in all other arenas.

 

“ _Mmmmnm..._ ” Anakin moans helplessly, rendered incoherent with pleasure. His vision swims with crackling white sunbeams, as his master's loving touch remakes him.

 

Oh yes, _this!_ A thousand times _this!_ He would have given up his freedom long ago if he had known that it could be exchanged for _this_. Obi Wan is running a hand from the nape of his neck to the center of his shoulder blades, over and over again, and he can feel the petting happening, not only on the surface of his skin, but also somehow _inside_ of him. Oh, sweet, merciful Stars! His body and soul are both being stroked, being pleasured, at the same time, in one and the same gesture.

 

“ _Master_ -” he struggles. “ _Please, this_. _Always, this_.”

 

His master's embrace is so strong, so crushingly tight- He never wants it to end. Tears are streaming down his face, for what must be the twentieth time in two days. Indeed, both of them have probably wept more in the past two days than in the preceding ten years put together.

 

“Always, Anakin.”

 

“Anything- I'll do anything you say. Just don't stop this- _Don't leave me_ -”

 

“Never,” says Obi Wan, kissing the tip of his nose, his tear salted cheeks-  “I shall never leave you.  I promise.”

 

Anakin sobs with joy, jamming his head up under his master's furry chin. In all his life, he has never felt so safe, so valued, so _loved_. For the first time since he left his mother at the age of nine, he is filled to the brim with the knowledge that he is being _taken care of_. And the gnarled knot of fear which has lain twisting his belly for so many years, the fear of rupture, and loss, and abandonment can finally begin to loosen.

 

This is where he belongs. This is his destiny. He and his master have finally, truly, become what they always should have been: Two complimentary halves of a single whole. He understands and accepts that he is not the half that makes the decisions. There is even something strangely liberating about this fact.

 

Anakin smiles to himself as he noses his master's throat, savoring the clean, healthy, sober smell of the pious Jedi's untouched flesh.

 

All his arrogance and bluster have amounted to nothing. He sees that now, as clear as water. His own will is like a brittle bone, splintered under the pressure of too many responsibilities and choices beyond his meager moral capacity. And the will of his master is like a plaster cast which holds him firmly in place, preventing him from doing any further injury to himself.

 

_Why did you ever think you needed to control everything? You wouldn't have known what to do with control if you'd had it. Now you control nothing, and it's much better this way._

 

He finds he likes this new, docile, obedient version of himself. This Anakin's thoughts are mild, and tranquil, and pleasant. This Anakin is at home in his own skin. This is the man he wants to be, the life he wants to lead. As this Anakin, he can be trusted around Padmé and the baby.

 

And maybe, just maybe, as this Anakin, he can finally do Qui Gon and his mother proud.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (What's this? Another chapter of gratuitous feelsporn in which nothing actually happens?)
> 
> I promise, the plot hasn't left the party, it's just stepped outside for a smoke.


	17. Chapter 17

Padmé sits, frozen with dread, heedless of the passage of time, upon the plush leather ottoman, until a sudden pattering of footsteps jolts her to attention. They have come back, at last. She turns up from her dry, sallow, worrying hands to see the two of them standing in the doorway of the study room, looking rumpled and wild-eyed, but otherwise intact. She wonders where they have been all these hours. She wonders what has passed between them. She wonders what has come of Yoda's warnings.

  


_Anchor him in the Light, will you? Or be drawn by him into the Darkness?_

  


She has tried to ready herself for the worst, but she has no real idea of what the worst might be. The ways of the Force are almost entirely mysterious to her; And so her imagination dispatches to fill the gaps in her knowledge with the most alarming notions. For a pent minute, she just watches them, and they let her. Two jewel-like pairs of eyes stare back at her, awaiting her judgement with patience and deference. The terrible, crackling, burning power which assaulted Master Windu seems to have been tamed. It is now shared between them, traveling endlessly back and forth betwixt their bodies in a kind of stable metabolic loop. She wonders if this is what is meant by “balance.”

  


She wishes someone would just explain to her what in the nine hells is happening. Neither the injured Master Windu, nor the shuffling, grumbling Master Yoda have been much of a help on that account. In her younger, more starry-eyed days, the esoteric nature of the Jedi used to appeal to her- But now, with real things at stake, she is beginning to find their tendency to answer every question with a question more maddening than charming.

  


“What happened?” she blurts, unable to quite conceal her suspense.

  


“If it's all the same to you, M'lady,” says Obi Wan cooly, “I think I'll let Anakin explain himself.” He guides his apprentice across the room with a gentle hand on his shoulder, presenting the wayward youth to the seated senator like a precious, borrowed object. Indeed, Padmé considers, he has done exactly as promised: He has brought her husband safely back to her. Why then, does the sight of them standing there together fill her with such unease?

  


“Yes... I think that would be best,” she says vaguely. For a moment, she seems to squint with her whole face, her eyes and lips narrowing like those of a child who has unwittingly tasted something sour- But this expression is swiftly replaced by one of courtly composure. “Master Yoda wanted to speak with you,” she continues, nodding in the direction of the corridor. And then she lifts her queenly chin, giving Obi Wan a long, appraising look, as if she has never seen him, or anything else like him, before. Her dark eyes seem to lave over him, sparkling with that very combination of girlish vim and womanly sophistication which have made her such a captivating figure in the Senate. “I believe that he and Master Windu are in the infirmary.”

  


“Then- I shan't keep them waiting any longer,” says Obi Wan. He is visibly blushing as he bows and turns to take his leave, suddenly eager to escape her scrutiny. As the ends of his cloak disappear through the doorway with a whisper of fabric over glassy tile, Anakin, who has yet to say a single word, stares adoringly after him.

  


When Obi Wan is gone, Anakin turns to face his wife with the same vapory, smiling expression. He feels so warm, and buoyant, and pleasantly confused about everything, that he's completely forgotten he's supposed to be “explaining” himself. Old Anakin probably would have had a whole rant prepared- New Anakin is content to simply stand there, silently absorbing her loveliness forever.

  


“Well?” she breathes, her large eyes blinking wetly.

  


“Oh-” His lips part in distress as the reality of the situation catches up with him. The mere possibility that she might be upset with him shortens his breath. “Padmé- Oh, _Padmé-_ I'm sor- I don't-” He takes a step towards her, and she flinches, with the jerky elegance of a startled doe. “Darling, please don't look at me like that!” he cries. When she doesn't respond, he drops to his knees, suddenly delirious with anguish. “Is it true-?” he sobs. “Is it true that you intend to leave me?” He falls like a limp rag at her feet, all the pride, and fury, and entitlement having been wrung out of him. Only hours ago, he might have tried to cajole or threaten her. But the Anakin who would have burned down the entire galaxy to stop her from leaving him, has been replaced by an Anakin who can only kneel and beg. “Did I frighten you?” he whispers hoarsely, staring at her clenching hands which seem to hold his very soul in their nervous grip. “Are you frightened of me now?”

  


“No, Ani,” she says, too quickly, because even though she actually _is_ a little bit frightened, she can't bear the heartsick look on his face.

  


“You know I- I'd never- _ever_ hurt you,” he stammers. “You _know_ that, right?” He bows his upper body so that the hem of his dark leather tabard dusts the silver-black tile.

  


“Of course I know that. Come here, my love,” she swallows, extending a hand so that it hovers airily above his head, like a pale bird flying parallel to the ground.

  


At this, he lunges forward and collapses into her, laying the flat of his cheek upon her lap and wrapping his arms about her lower legs in a pose of the most desperate neediness and abject submission. “I'm so _sorry_ -” he whimpers. He is still nothing more than a lost little boy. “I was wrong. I didn't know what was best. I didn't know _anything_.” He squeezes her, reverently pressing his lips against her thigh through the gauzy fabric of her yellow shift. “So I- I lashed out in anger. But it won't happen again. I promise!” He lifts his head a few centimeters to nuzzle her belly. Her raised hands tremble momentarily in space, before settling into the tangled mass of his hair.

  


“I would very much like to believe that,” she sighs, slowly stroking him behind the ear. “And it's good that you've resolved to make a change. But I worry-” She pauses briefly, lowering her head in sadness. “I worry that this may go a lot deeper than you realize. I've known for a long time that you were... confused about certain things. And I am ashamed to say that I stood by and did nothing, instead of finding you the help I knew you needed.”

  


“Don't say that!” he gasps. “It's not your fault at all. You were the one who used to say I ought to listen to Obi Wan more.” He smiles broadly up at her, his eyes shining with emotion, his hands on her knees, and his knees at her feet. “And you were right- I understand now. He has explained everything to me.”

  


“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow. “Has he?” This must have been one efficient explanation.

  


“Yes. I realize now that I have taken your love too much for granted,” he pronounces earnestly, clasping her hand. “I must work harder to be worthy of you. And the baby.”

  


“But Ani, it's not-” she struggles. “It's not _just_ about me and the baby. The galaxy doesn't revolve around us. That's what you don't seem to-”

  


“I know-!” he interjects. “That is, I-” His gaze drops, sinking to the dark, reflective floor. “I should care about what's best too, I know. For everyone, I mean. That's what a Jedi-” He takes a hard, shuddering breath. His grip on her hand tightens almost to the point of violence. “I'm sorry! This is just- Very difficult for me!”

  


“Oh, Darling...” she sighs.

  


“I am _trying_ \- And Obi Wan has promised to- To help me,” he says evenly, making a valiant effort to control his tone of voice. “Please Padmé, give me a chance.”

  


“I will always love you, Anakin,” she affirms, looking down at their interlaced hands. Her smile is one of quiet wisdom. The sort of wisdom which is gained through strife. “But that doesn't mean I am prepared to follow you anywhere and everywhere.”

  


“ _Please_ -” he rasps in panic.

  


“Shh...” She presses her free hand to his lips. “Listen to me. Let _me_ explain _myself_. My entire life has been devoted to fighting for justice. That is my path, and I will not deviate from it,” she says. And saying it makes it real. She traces her fingers along his cheek, gently charting its curve like the arc of starlight hugging a gravitational lens. “As long as you remain with me, on the path of justice, we will always be together. That may mean being a Jedi- Or it may mean something else entirely for you. And that's okay.” She lifts his chin, so that he is looking directly into her eyes. “I can see that you are making an effort- And that's all I needed to see.” She kisses his forehead with a sublime, purifying softness. “It's okay for you to make mistakes. It's okay for you to trip up sometimes. As long as you are following the path, I will be right here beside you.” Her lips wink bemusedly. “And so will Obi Wan.”

  


His death-grip on her hand relaxes, as he tilts his head back, eyes closed in rapture. He is not alone- He is surrounded by love. He opens his eyes, letting them be burned by the emergency florescents in the ceiling, so that when he finally looks back at Padmé, it is through a screen of pink and violet spots. He wonders where the Chancellor is now. He wonders what is happening on the planet's surface, so far above their heads. It strikes him that just as his own life is coming together, the rest of the galaxy might be going to hells. _You must bring peace to the world inside, before you can do the same for the world outside._ And he can. He will. He is.

  


“I know that you and Obi Wan share something very special,” Padmé continues. “Something which I may not be able to understand.”

  


“But-” Anakin blurts, “It doesn't mean I love _you_ any less!”

  


“I know that,” she says, simply. Her lack of jealousy still astonishes him. He can scarcely comprehend such generosity of spirit, such natural confidence and self-esteem. For all his cataclysmic power, it is _she_ who appears godlike to _him_.

  


“You really _are_ an angel,” he whispers.

 

“No, Anakin,” she shakes her head, smiling wistfully. “I'm just a decent, well-adjusted human, who knows what she wants.”

 

“Then you-” He looks bashful. “You wouldn't mind, if he were to be- _With_ us?”

 

“It's something we can all discuss, together.” In truth, she has been considering it. And the more she considers it, the better it sounds in her head. “With the baby coming, we already knew our marriage was going to change. And now-” she sighs. “Now the whole galaxy is changing around us. We can still be a family- We _will_ be. But we may have to... adapt.” At length, she looks up soberly. “And Obi Wan- Well, he doesn't really have a family...”

 

“So maybe... He could be part of ours?” asks Anakin, his face alight with awe and joy.

 

“It still depends, of course, what _he_ has to say on the matter.”

 

“Of course,” he says breathlessly, kissing her face. “Yes. Thank you. Of course, we will- Ask him-”

 

She laughs softly against his lips, much of her prior anxiety easing away. The sea goddess of Naboo looks out for one of her favorite daughters. Like the handsome green stones which line her shores, all can be polished smooth, with enough time and effort. Padmé releases her fears into the deep, dark, soothing water. She may not understand the mysteries of the Cosmos, but she does understand politics- She is quite adept at negotiation, which is to say, she is quite adept at turning situations to her advantage. She has looked into Obi Wan's eyes, she has noticed the curl of his fingers, and she has read the longing there. She feels confident he can be... _reasoned_ with.

 

She covers Anakin's lips with her own, reminding him of her aggressiveness, and he groans eagerly, reminding her of how much he has always enjoyed it. Their marriage isn't broken- It just needs a software update. Perhaps in the form of Master Kenobi. Perhaps, she thinks mischievously, some new hardware can be requisitioned as well.

 

“Provided we are able to secure your dear master's cooperation,” she breathes hotly, into his quivering mouth, “there _are_ a couple of things I'd like to try.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this "shame" of which you speak?


	18. Chapter 18

Unlike most of the other rooms in the temple, the infirmary is fully lit by emergency power. Narrow cots line the stainless durasteel walls, magnetic imaging machines whir softly, and the smell of bacta dominates. Aside from the eerie absence of patients and healers, it almost looks as though nothing has changed. As though their world hasn't ended.

 

Obi Wan enters the room somewhat warily, dreading what he might find inside. He is relieved to see Mace Windu fully conscious and seated almost upright, his outer tunics shucked away, his face and forearms glistening with a film of oily amber salve. His eyebrows are gone, burned off, his ears purpled and tumid, his skin grotesquely splitting and seeping like a planet's black crust atop a roiling orange mantel. Yet from within the blighted mask, his huge, round, bird-like eyes look just as doggedly alert as ever. After a beat of silence, peeling, bursting lips recede, revealing swollen, too-bright gums.

 

“ _Well_ , Kenobi?”

 

Even the man's ire is welcome- A reassuring indication that, despite the damage, he is still himself.

 

“I am happy to report,” says Obi Wan wearily, dragging his knuckles against his arm in a kind of liminal gesture of self-encouragement, “that the situation is under control.”

 

“The _situation_? You mean the boy.”

 

Anakin, he feels like remarking, is both of these things and more. Anakin is what is happening to all of them. Anakin is a terrible, grinding machine of meat and bone and magic. Anakin is a teeming constellation of phenomena as yet inexplicable by any known spiritual discipline or science. Anakin is the universal and the particular. Anakin is his own epoch. Anakin is what is rapidly consuming him body and soul, inside and out, atom by atom, even as they are having this conversation. But of course, he doesn't say any of these things. Instead:

 

“He is with the senator. She can handle him, I think. For now.”

 

“I see,” Mace hisses wetly, his tongue pushing out the sibilant as if it hurts to move his jaw too much. He hunches forward gingerly, his elbows resting on his thighs. “And in the longer term?” He makes a sound that is somewhere between a cough and a sigh. “I wonder what it is you think you're going to do.”

“About the 'boy'?”

 

“About the _situation_.”

 

“I don't-” Obi Wan lowers his eyes penitently, staring down at his august colleague's mutilated hands. They are slick with tallow and oddly splayed, to avoid the pain of blistered fingers touching. “I'm sorry. I know this is all my doing. But I did not intend-” he struggles, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

 

“What exactly _did_ you intend?”

 

“It was my master, Qui Gon-!” he exclaims. “He appeared to me in a vision. More than a vision. He was actually _here_. Returned, in the form of a visible spirit, from beyond the veil of death.” His expression momentarily brightens with the plenary wonder of a child for the deeds of his parent. “And he showed me the future! Or, what would have been the future, had I not heeded his warnings.”

 

“What future? What did you learn?” Mace demands.

 

“I hardly know where to begin. It was Anakin. He was-” Obi Wan shakes his head helplessly. “He was going to turn to the Dark Side. To join the Chancellor- No, the _Emperor_.” He steels himself, swallowing hard. “There is no other way to say this: He was going to destroy us all.”

 

“I see.”

 

“You don't sound terribly surprised.”

 

“Oh, I am _shocked_!” Mace sneers. “But I am not surprised. Here's what I'm trying to understand, Kenobi: You discovered that your exceptionally powerful, and eminently foolhardy, former apprentice was going to turn to the Dark Side. And you somehow thought the solution to this was to give him even more power.”

 

“Oh, well, when you put it like that...” Obi Wan rolls his eyes. “Listen, don't you think I know how absurd all this is? I had no idea any of this was going to happen. I was simply doing as Qui Gon instructed, because I had to do something. And it _has_ worked, hasn't it, after a fashion?” he asks, somewhat desperately. “Anakin is still with me- With _us_ , that is.”

 

“And the Tython relic? Why did you open it? Where did you even learn _how_ to open it? The rituals associated with it were lost to time. No being still living remembers how to wield its power. Or so we thought.”

 

“I don't know,” he breathes, obviously trying not to panic. “We just touched it, and it- I don't know what we did. I don't know what is happening to us. If _you_ know anything, please tell me!” Even now, he can feel Anakin's bright presence traveling with him, within him. A golden pulse as constant as his own heartbeat, and almost as necessary. For all that he is beside himself with guilt and worry, he is also filled to the brim with this, this promise of perpetual oneness, this mutual rapture which is wholly internal to itself, and which no external hardship can reach. “Master Yoda said our souls had become... fused together,” he says, shivering in embarrassment, and fear, and _joywarmthpleasure_. “But I- I don't have the slightest idea what that means.”

 

“Ah, yes,” Windu intones, managing to sound as soberly didactic as ever, even with a jaw that won't close all the way. “There are legends of such cases. And little more than legends. Of course, in the days before the Order, when chaos reigned, and all manner of heresies were permitted, there were those brazen enough to tamper with the sacred material of their own souls. Some sought sheer power, while others sought wisdom- Perhaps some merely hoped to experience new levels of... intimacy. It hardly matters what their motives were, for none of them appreciated the danger of what they were doing. Needless to say, almost every sentient being who has ever tried to fuse their soul with another has been utterly destroyed in the attempt.”

 

“And those who _did_ survive the process?” Obi Wan prompts gamely, even managing a rueful smile. “I know you will tell me what became of them.”

 

“Now that...” Mace raises what used to be his eyebrows. “That really is the stuff of legend. There are accounts- very ancient stories- which tell of Force-sensitive beings becoming... lost in each other's minds.”

 

“What do you mean _lost_?”

 

“Confused. Unmoored from reality. It is said that these 'soul-bonds' granted their possessors more than unnatural power- They also produced extraordinary psychic and emotional experiences, arising from irresistible feelings of attachment. The bonded ones' devotion to each other was such that it eventually overwhelmed their judgement, causing them to behave irrationally. And their _power_ was such that they became dangerous to all until, for the greater good, they had to be destroyed.”

 

The soft, magnetic hum of imaging machines is suddenly deafening, and Obi Wan's mouth has gone dry with horror.

 

“What-” he breathes. “What are we going to do?” He scrubs a hand over his face, blinking hard. “You mean to undo it,” he says, sounding strangely accusatory. “You mean to separate us.”

 

“Are you going to fry me, too?” Mace jibes.

 

“Of course not!” Obi Wan cries, his brow scrunching in anguish.

 

“Then, if I said I was going to undo it, you'd cooperate?”

 

He hesitates. The thought of separation is... _unbearable_. He can feel the desperate, mad refusal mounting like a geyser from within the deepest groundwater of his being. And then the realization freezes him: It's already happening. He is already losing his ability to be remotely reasonable where Anakin is concerned.

 

“You are right, of course,” he says at last, eyes blank, voice hollow. “The bond must be severed. It must be severed at once, before it is too late.”

 

The rest of the Council may be gone, but Mace Windu possesses the uncanny ability to surround with a ring of judgement all by himself. Obi Wan holds his breath, anticipating a harsh verdict. He has been compromised by attachment, a cardinal sin. It's not his fault, not entirely. It took some insidious, ancient curse to reach inside of him and ruin him. But he is ruined, nonetheless. A lifetime of monastic training and discipline, undone in a matter of days. Arbitrarily ripped away from him. He feels a wash of misery. It's so... _unfair_.

 

“That may not be necessary.”

 

“What? What do you mean it won't be... Unless-” His stomach plunges. “Unless you intend to simply destroy us.” Destroy _Anakin._ For the greater good. He begins to tremble uncontrollably, as the music roars between his ears- _youpromisedyoupromisedyoupromised-_ Even if Mace is right, even it's the only way, he can't let Anakin come to harm. Can't let anyone lay a hand on his... _your beloved one_ , the voice in his head helpfully supplies.

 

“Don't be absurd!” Mace huffs. He looks pensively down at his raw fingers, wincing as he skims them over oozing lips. After a moment, he continues, his voice softening wistfully: “Have we truly made ourselves so misunderstood?” He looks up, his black eyes underlit by an uncharacteristic glimmer of sad fondness. “You were brought to us as an infant child Obi Wan. And since that time, you have spent your life in selfless, tireless service to our Order. Do you really think we would just kill you?”

 

“If the circumstances demanded it? Of course you would. And I would let you. But _Anakin_ -”

 

“As I say, it won't be necessary!” The elder Jedi looks flustered, as if unwilling to entertain discussion what he may or may not do. “At least, not as far as we know. Not yet.”

 

“What _do_ you know?” Obi Wan murmurs, holding himself as if he is made of bruises.

 

“I should clarify that we merely _suspect_. As long as the Force remains shrouded in darkness, nothing is certain. And yet our suspicion, by its very nature, proves-” Mace realizes he is rambling, and takes a moment to subdue his scholarly enthusiasm. “Yes, well,” he fixes Obi Wan with his most grave, portentous look: “If Skywalker is indeed the Chosen One- and we now have more reason than ever to believe that he is- then what is happening to him very likely has something to do with the fulfillment of the Prophesy.”

 

“What is _happening_? You don't mean...” Obi Wan gives a kind of breathless, inchoate laugh. “You don't suppose that _this-_ ” he gestures vaguely to himself, _“_ is somehow...?”

 

“Ever since the day when Qui Gon brought the child before us, Master Yoda and I have sought insight into his future. We came to realize long ago, through meditation, that Skywalker could never fulfill the Prophesy without first passing through a crucible. We have always tried to challenge him, to create opportunities for him to learn about himself, for precisely this reason. Now, perhaps you think we've been unnecessarily harsh-”

 

“I _do_ actually,” Obi Wan says suddenly, his usual inhibitions having been carried away in a tornado of unreal circumstance. “You have never trusted him. Never believed in him. You thought you were concealing it, but you weren't. I saw it. And he saw it.”

 

“Great Spirits, Kenobi!” Mace exclaims. “It's not what you think at all! If I've had my difficulties with Skywalker over the years, it wasn't because I didn't believe in him. It was precisely because I _did_ believe- Because I _knew_ \- And I-” A haunted look passes over his face, so quickly that a non-sensitive might miss it. And his deep, majestic voice is brought down to a subterranean rumble. “I was afraid,” he confesses.

 

“Of... Anakin?”

 

“Of what he represents!” He scratches at his bandaged arm, unable to meet Obi Wan's gaze. “Balance, it is foretold. Haven't you ever wondered what that means?” he rasps quietly.

 

The darkness has clouded everything for decades. Even before the reemergence of the Sith on Naboo, the Force had been out of alignment, swirling with strange, untraceable eddies, like ominous curls of warning smoke. But if it is in need of balance, of fixing, doesn't that mean that the Force, as he has known it for most of his life, is somehow wrong? And after it's been balanced, will it _feel_ different? Will it be as clear, and smooth, and brittle as a pane of glass, bereft of all its fascinating pits, and knots, and pockets, and shadows? Will it still holler and whisper, hide and reveal? Will its touch feel the same? Will it still comfort him, the way it does now? He cannot possibly explain any of this to the younger man standing before him, at least, not in so many words. He looks up at Obi Wan, at once hoping and dreading to be understood. He has seldom, perhaps never, appeared so vulnerable to another Jedi. But then, they have all been like this, haven't they? Afraid to ask questions, to give voice to doubts, afraid to reveal any weakness to each other. It's what did them in, he realizes now. Their arrogance may have been what blinded them to the serpent lurking in their midst, but their arrogance was always just a shelter from their fear.

 

“Mace, I-” Obi Wan's hand hovers awkwardly, unproffered, in midair, before returning to his side. “I didn't know. I'm so _sorry_. For what's happened to you,” he stiffly indicates the other man's face. “For everything. I know Anakin is sorry.”

 

“Is he really?”

 

“No,” he huffs, dragging a hand through his sweaty hair. “I don't know-”

 

“But _you're_ sorry enough for the two of you put together, I'm sure,” Mace grimaces.

 

“I just wish there was something I could-” Obi Wan suddenly stops and looks down, curiously flexing his fingers. “Actually...” His eyes snap upwards again, at once a jittery hypergreen. The light in his chest is pleasantly throbbing, as usual, and if he focuses on it, he can draw it up and out, along his arms, till it pools in his palms, and his fingertips crackle with golden sparks. He breathes in deeply, letting the sparks emanating from his hands simmer down into a soft, buttercup glow. Instinctively, he reaches out to trace the side of his colleague's marred face, willing the flesh to be mended. It makes a kind of crazy sense; Because Anakin is _his_ \- his to adore, and to keep, and to command- that means Anakin's power is also his. What Anakin has done, he has the ability to undo.

 

Mace flinches away, expecting pain, but sits up straight, eyes bulging, when he is met instead with soft, luxuriant warmth. It takes only a few minutes for his face and hands to be fully restored to their proper chocolate color and texture, fissures closing, blisters receding, until healthy skin is covered by nothing but a sheen of suddenly unnecessary medical ointment. Smiling sheepishly, Obi Wan offers him a nearby cleansing cloth, and with a trembling hand he takes it, looking thoroughly put out as he proceeds to scrub away the grease.

 

“I suppose I'll have to start getting used to idea that everything is going to change,” says Mace, folding his freshly healed hands in his lap. “Look at you. Look what you can do now. Force knows, it already has.”

 

“I wish you had told me before how you felt.”

 

“There is much,” he sighs, “we have not told you.”

 

“Well, maybe it's time to start.”

 

“Then we'll start at the beginning: You must have asked yourself why, after refusing Qui Gon's request to train Skywalker, the Council suddenly reversed its judgement and approved yours. We changed our minds for a reason, Obi Wan, and I assure you it was not because your account of your master's dying wish moved our hearts.” He licks his newly smooth lips, looking back and forth like a Sabbac-player deciding which of his cards to throw down. “You were far too young and inexperienced to take on even an ordinary padawan, and Skywalker was far from ordinary. We had doubts about your ability to... Well, frankly, your ability to exercise any sort of authority over him at all. We feared that, when you became bonded as master and apprentice, his sheer power might overwhelm you. Might even damage your mind. We had countless reasons to refuse your request. But we had one reason to grant it, and we decided that that reason outweighed everything else.”

 

“Stars and stones,” Obi Wan laughs nervously. “Don't make me guess it.”

 

“The future, as you know, is always in motion. When Qui Gon brought Skywalker before the Council, the future was oscillating violently, and all of us sensed grave danger. I do not know whether it was Qui Gon's fate to die on Naboo- But it was certainly not his fate to train the boy. He himself must have sensed that the Force had other plans. I suspect he was merely playing along with them, as was his way.”

 

“But surely,” Obi Wan frowns, “Qui Gon would have made an excellent master for Anakin. I've always thought... Well...”

 

“Oh, I know,” Mace snorts derisively. “You don't hide it very well. You've always thought of yourself as a substitute for Skywalker's _real_ master, when nothing could be further from the truth. We allowed you to train him, because we realized that only you could help him become what he needed to be. You see, Skywalker was not simply _born_ as the Chosen One- It is his destiny, it is an event, a happening, and when it occurs to him, it must be the product of some transformative experience. Not just for him. For all of us. For the Force. For life itself.”

 

“But you can't possibly think _I_ have anything to do with it.”

 

“And why not? Honestly, Master Kenobi, where is your faith?” he says, pretending to sound scandalized. “Don't you believe the Force has a plan for you?”

 

“Of course I do, but-”

 

“But nothing too important, right?” he smiles caustically. “Listen, when the possibility that you might train Skywalker opened up, our vision changed, and the future fell into place. We could not know then what would eventually transpire, but we _did_ know that you and the Chosen One had to be bonded immediately in order to stabilize the timestream.”

 

Obi Wan is just about to open his mouth to object when a hard _thwack_ rings out, scrabbling his thoughts.

 

“Deep in meditation, I have been.” Emerging from a sensory deprivation chamber on the far side of the infirmary, Master Yoda punctuates his entrance by cracking his cane three times against the stone floor. “You!” he shouts. “Listen to Master Windu, you should!”

 

“But, Master Yoda!” Obi Wan wheels around, flustered. “What he is saying simply can't be true. The Prophesy has nothing to do with me.”

 

“Failed you, we have, young one,” Yoda sighs, canting his head sadly. “Endeavor to make up for it, we shall. Explain everything. But later, not now! Passed is the time for talk! Now it is the time for action!” He makes a shooing motion with his tiny, clawed hand. “Go!”

 

“Of course,” Obi Wan bows. “What must I do, Master?”

 

“Is it not clear to you?” Yoda rolls his eyes. “Skywalker, Skywalker-! You must go to him at once! Important developments. Now is the time!”

 

“I- What-?” Obi Wan blinks.

 

“Still here, are you? Go!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Insert clever quip justifying long hiatus.]


	19. Chapter 19

Obi Wan peers into the smoky, vermillion darkness. He can see the door to Anakin's quarters, only meters away now. Just one among the temple's hundreds of dull, steel, pneumatic hatches which lead to hundreds of identical, modest, compact dormitories. Hardly the dwelling of a family man, he muses. No place to keep a wife, much less a child. Even if it weren't under siege at the moment. He approaches cautiously, keying himself in. It would seem redundant to knock at this juncture, given Anakin's effusive, near-constant mental invitations.

 

He is more startled than he really should be to find Padmé looming over her husband like that, coiling hair loose about her shoulders, swollen breasts unbound beneath her semi-translucent slip.

 

“Forgive me-” he exclaims, instantly turning to leave.

 

“Wait!” Anakin calls to him, giddy and breathless. “Don't go! Come closer.” He is sprawled across his narrow bunk, reclining on his elbows, naked except for his leggings. Shadows flutter like blue moths over his neck and torso as he sits up half-way, curling in at the waist.

 

With a sheepish smile, Padmé turns and stands, revealing him in full. The front of his leggings is opened, freeing the purple stamen of him to jut proudly from a bed of pyrite curls- and of course, this part of him is beautiful, too. It bobs lazily up and down between his golden thighs as shameless, exuberant laughter shakes him. “Don't worry, Master. We don't bite. Well...” he glances larkishly at Padmé. “We _do,_ actually. But we won't bite _you_ unless you want us to.”

 

She shoots him a glare, adjusting her gauzy, yellow garment about her naked thighs. Obi Wan seems petrified with embarrassment, and for a moment she is worried they have really put him off. But then she catches sight of it, that subtle curling of his fingers, that quiet _ache_ he probably doesn't even know is in him, and she decides that now is as good a time to make her move as any.

 

“What Anakin is _trying_ to say,” she avers, with an awkward over-formality that might have been comic in less perilous times, “is that you are welcome to join us.”

 

He blinks at her, lips mutely parted in disbelief. Then, with a short, nervous chuckle: “M'lady, Padmé- I don't think I quite understand.” He crosses his arms, shyly. He is suddenly warm all over, his body thrumming with anticipation as if it knows something he doesn't.

 

“Obi Wan, my _dear_ friend...” She saunters up to him, tilting her doe-like head in neat sympathy. “You are under an awful lot of stress these days, aren't you? I think it would be good for you to join us right now.” She takes him gently by the hand, mooning up at him through long, besomy lashes. “I think we could make you feel much better.”

 

“Padmé-?” he swallows tremulously as, standing on tiptoe, she presses a ghost of a kiss to the end of his nose.

 

“Would you like that?” she coaxes softly. “Would you like us to make you feel good for a while?”

 

Well that settles it, he thinks. This is _not_ his body anymore. It is a stranger's heart which is quickening with excitement, a stranger's belly which is seizing with desire. It is a stranger's hand which is rising unsteadily to brush her milky upper-arm.

 

“ _Yes_...” a stranger's voice is whispering.

 

She reaches down to tug at his utility belt, doing nothing to conceal the glint of victory in her black-honey eyes. “If you would permit me the honor?”

 

He gives her a fractional nod. This is license enough it seems, and in an instant she is dispossessing him of his various Jedi tabards and tunics with a deftness and efficiency that bespeaks experience. He is rigid with suspense as she peels him, course beige husks falling away like the wasted part of an ear of grain to the threshing-room floor. She is leading him to the millstone to be ground down into cake-flour, and he is letting her. Stars, he is _letting_ her! He can feel her agile fingers scrape him, smell her perfume, and bath oil, and sweat, see the amused quirk of her lips as she takes a step back to better observe his semi-nakedness. If this is an insomnia-induced hallucination, it is a remarkably detailed and persistent one.

 

“Boots?” she says sweetly, noting with approval the architecture of his back as he obediently stoops to remove them. What a treat, to have one of her youthful, innocent fantasies fulfilled at this late date! She remembers the first time she ever laid eyes on Obi Wan Kenobi, when she was still a girl, and he was scarcely a man. She remembers she thought him quite something back then. He is different now of course: broader, and fuller, and rougher in places, with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes like charming little sparkles of expression. She lays both of her hands on his shoulders and brings them down over his lightly-furred chest in a curious, combing sweep. His skin is covered with pinkish scars and blotches of discoloration from the frequent use of bacta, and his limbs are subtly asymmetrical from repeated breakings and settings. It is a hardened warrior's body, she thinks, or it would be, if the essential civility and graciousness of the spirit inside did not shine through it so brightly.

 

“Beautiful,” she murmurs, absently thumbing the curve of his waist.

 

“Really?” he laughs, bewildered.

 

“Hasn't anyone ever said so?”

 

“No.”

 

Slowly, giving him plenty of time to change his mind, she reaches around the back of his head and pulls him into a long, searching kiss. He slackens against her, hands opening and closing uselessly at his sides in a way that makes her wonder whether he's ever been touched like this at all. Surely, there has been _someone_...

 

“Enough-” Anakin groans from behind her, grasping fistfuls of synth-linen as he lies on his back, fidgeting and squirming. “You two are torturing me!”

 

Padmé turns, laying her head on Obi Wan's shoulder and addresses him in a stage-whisper: “Master Kenobi, have you not taught your padawan patience?”

 

“He resists learning, M'lady.”

 

“Well-” She nips languidly at Obi Wan's jaw and throat, as her stroking hands travel over his chest and belly. “That simply won't do.” Pausing, she pulls back slightly, eyebrows arching in a look of girlish mischief. “Why don't you hold him down for me, and I'll teach him a lesson?” she purrs, revealing an edge of teeth.

 

“H-how do you want...?” Obi Wan looks from Anakin's writhing nakedness and back to Padmé again in trepidation. He cannot meet Anakin's laser-bolt eyes.

 

“Don't worry,” she says, low and soothing. She lacks the Force-potential required to actually mind-trick anyone, but you would hardly know it by the way she has the Jedi master in her thrall. “I'll show you...” she continues, walking him backwards to the side of the bed and pressing on his shoulders until he sits. “I just want to try something. Something easy. You won't have to do much. And if you don't like it, we can stop, of course.” Her skirts brush against him with torturous delicacy as she looms above him, looking ready to pounce. “But if you _do_ like it,” she ventures, “then, maybe, we can do more...”

 

She pushes him onto his back and, with a bit of silent coaxing, gets him to lift his legs onto the bed so that he and Anakin are lying side by side, close but not quite touching. They are visibly trembling, the one more with desire and the other more with fear, but neither without both. Her pulse quickens at the sight of them. To have such powerful beings so much at her mercy-! It gives her a terrible thrill.

 

Anakin moves to grasp at Obi Wan, but before he can, she catches him by the wrists and holds his arms above his head.

 

“Not so fast, my love.” Her eyes narrow in passion as she pins him beneath her. “We are going to go about this properly now. Master Kenobi and I are going to set you straight.”

 

“Padmé, _please_ -” he gasps, features scrunching in torment. “I can't take it anymore-”

 

“Shh...” She kisses him, only to pull away again, and leave him aching. “Patience.”

 

He is heavy in her arms as she gathers him up and lays him down on top of Obi Wan so that his back is flush with the other man's chest. She is reminded again, as she arranges Obi Wan's arms around Anakin's torso, of her girlhood, of playing in the broadgrass behind the house with Sola's dolls, of mashing their plasteel faces together to make them kiss.

 

Obi Wan embraces Anakin from behind, his chin on Anakin's shoulder, and quietly keens against Anakin's neck. The strength of his own desire is a shock to him, a violent disruption of selfhood which leaves him feeling overwhelmed, ashamed, and scared. But then Anakin's frantic delight is seeping into him, possessing his body, practically _insisting_ that he enjoy this, until, at last, the sheer pleasure of it can't be denied.

 

The skin-to-skin contact has done something to them, Padmé realizes, has triggered their strange link in some way. They are mewling and rubbing against each other as if they can't help themselves, as if they can never possibly be close enough. And then, suddenly, they are... _glowing_. All around them the Force hums with portent, as if to affirm the inevitability and rightness of this, this consummation. This cosmic Event, to which she alone is a privileged witness.

 

The sight of their struggling sends a wash of heat through her, and she reaches down to stroke herself through the fabric of her slip. At the same time, with her other hand, she reaches through the open front of Anakin's leggings to caress his inner-thigh. He laughs, and writhes, and tosses his hair, but it is Obi Wan who whimpers, as though devastated by the sensation.

 

“You can actually _feel_... what he feels?” she asks, her breath growing short as she considers the possibilities.

 

“ _Yeh-_ Yes,” Obi Wan chokes.

 

“Because you are touching? That makes the connection- different, stronger. Right?”

 

This time, he can't manage more than a quiet moan in response. The barrier of skin between himself and Anakin is little more than a permeable membrane through which feelings slosh back and forth freely. He squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face behind Anakin's shoulder as the boy's exuberant lust floods his totally unprepared system.

 

Padmé bows to kiss at Anakin's belly, delighting in the way his muscles leap and quiver beneath her lips. With deliberate slowness, she pares away his dark leggings and tosses them to the floor, leaving him at last completely naked. Firmly gripping both his thighs, she leans down and teases the bright tip of his flower, before finally taking it whole into her mouth.

 

“ _Padmé_ ,” Anakin froths and giggles. “My Queen, have mercy-!” He tries to sit up, to reach for her, but his master's arms hold him fast. Even if he could overcome their physical strength, he cannot disobey their implicit command to be still. He sighs in frustration and _gratitudereliefsurrender_ , lying back and accepting his fate.

 

When she did this to him for the first time- beneath an indigo Naboo sky, before his mother, before their marriage, before the war- it was with the selfish, vapory love of a girl. Now, it is with the generous, unflinching love of a woman who has seen the very worst of him.

 

For as long as he can remember, Anakin Skywalker has lived with the fear that no one could possibly want him if they knew just how dark and hollow he was inside. But as Padmé and Obi Wan share him, crushing his body between theirs, there is no hiding anything from either of them anymore. He has tried and pushed these people, he has taken, and taken, and taken from them, all the while hoping they wouldn't notice the screaming void that was his heart. The realization that they can both still love him, now that they have both seen him in all his sickness and ugliness, is almost too much for his brittle mind to bear.

 

“ _Padmé-_ ” he cries, as her tongue laves over him. “ _I'm sorry- I love you- I'm sorry-!_ ” But his words are lost as the roar of hyperspace fills his ears. Everything recedes from him as she brings him higher and higher, flinging him out beyond the most distant stars in a paroxysm of light.

 

Obi Wan bites back a sob as Anakin arches against him, pouring wave after wave of foreign pleasure into his body until his nerves feel like ragged wires, and his throat burns with tears. When he opens his eyes, the image of Padmé swims before him, kneeling on the edge of the mattress, sweaty hair covering half her face, rocking furiously as she kneads herself to completion. After taking a moment to catch her breath, she pulls Anakin's thermal military blanket over the three of them, and lies back, cradling her belly in contentment.

 

“Did you put him to sleep?” She giggles, thoroughly bemused, and rolls onto her side.

 

“Hmm. Yes,” says Obi Wan, wrapping himself tightly around Anakin's dozing form and rotating them both so that they are facing her.

 

“By... accident? Or on purpose?”

 

“A little of both, I think. I just wanted him to calm down. But I am may have suggested it... a bit too strongly.”

 

“Oh!” she says suddenly, starting to sit back up again. “I'm so sorry! We still have to take care of _you_ , don't we?”

 

“No, no. It's quite alright. That was-” he blushes furiously, “already enough. Already _too much_.”

 

“You... didn't like it, then?” she frowns, chewing at her cuticle in disappointment.

 

“Actually,” he sighs, “I liked it quite a lot. More than I-” He looks away, struggling for once to put a name to his conflicted feelings, instead of leaving them to die anonymous deaths at the bottom of the deep, cool river of his mind. “More than I am accustomed to liking anything. Padmé...” He meets her eyes again. “Thank you, for this. And for being so... accommodating. I suppose that, as Anakin's wife, you have every right to be furious with me. I am deeply sorry if my... changed relationship with him has been any trouble to you.”

 

His meek, apologetic expression is entirely at odds with the aura of power his body is radiating- So brilliant, it's as if he has swallowed a star. He doesn't even seem to realize it, thinks Padmé fondly. He has no idea how magnificent he is becoming.

 

“There is no need to thank me,” she smiles. “It is I who should be thanking you. You saved the one I love most in all the galaxy from a terrible fate.”

 

“I did what I thought I had to do. But it was reckless, foolish really-”

 

“No. You _saved_ him. You gave him something I never could. He and I...” She gnaws at the edge of her thumb in distress. “As much as I do love him, I am finally forced to admit that he and I bring out the worst in each other. But _you_ \- You bring out the best in him...” In the semi-darkness, she looks flawlessly disheveled, her sugar-white skin glossed with sweat, her dark hair licking all around her head like tongues of chocolate flame. She is a fertile goddess in satisfied repose. Only her eyes betray the vulnerable girl within the majestic queen. “Don't you see? It's no good to me having him all to myself if he's broken,” she says, her voice softly cracking. “If this is what he needs to feel whole... How can I stand in the way of it?”

 

“There are others who, in your position, would feel justifiably affronted.”

 

“Others might not understand. But Anakin and I,” she smiles wearily, “are a special case. Secrecy and distance have made our marriage more difficult in some ways... but also easier in others. For instance, it made it much easier to avoid dealing with our problems.” She rubs slow circles against her belly, turning pensive. “We each had our separate lives, our _real_ lives, and then we had this- This fantasy together, removed from everything else. Being together was like- Like taking a vacation from reality.” She shakes her head in self-recrimination. “When you and Anakin showed up in the Chancellor's office, I hardly knew what to think, because everything was happening so fast. But it didn't take me long to realize that something had changed between you. I knew the two of you had crossed some sort of line. And if it had been anyone else, it _would_ have bothered me. But it's different with you, Obi Wan.” Her elegant hand reaches to caress the side of his face, eliciting a tiny gasp. “I knew you weren't taking him away from me. Because you have always kept him safe for me, and brought him back to me. And now, instead of feeling angry or jealous... I feel almost _guilty_. I've just taken it for granted all these years that when I wasn't with him, which was most of the time, you would be there to take care of him.” She flashes him a wry grin, as her fingers stroke behind his blushing ear. “I feel like I've been enjoying all the fun parts of being a wife, while leaving you to do all the hard work.”

 

“Not at all,” he says. “As his master, caring for Anakin was my duty. But even more than that-” His brow scrunches with emotion as he finally confesses to her what he has worked to conceal from everyone, including himself. “It has been the single greatest joy of my life. I don't know what the future holds, but I do know that no matter what is in store for us-”

 

“You _need_ to be with him. You can't be separated now. I know,” she frowns. “That's exactly what this is about. I'm done with lying. I'm done with using people. I'm done living a life which doesn't accord with my principles. I don't want to be just another one of the many who have benefitted from your goodness, without giving anything in return.”

 

“I assure you, you have not burdened me. To be permitted to... _lie_ with both of you like this is more than I ever-”

 

“No, _listen_. This isn't just about us... sharing Anakin. I think that, in some sense, we've already been sharing him for years. This is about establishing trust. Knowing where we stand.”

 

He chuckles, softly. “Are we drafting a treaty, Senator?”

 

“More like a... joint custody agreement,” she smiles. But her smile is quickly smothered by a fog of fear. “All I can think about now is what's going to happen when this child is born. I know it has powers. Sometimes, I swear I can feel it, reaching for my mind. I believe that it must be trained, but _I_ certainly can't teach it the ways of the Force. Anakin will want to, but- Stars, what if it's just like him?!” She rakes a hand through her hair, sputtering with nervous laugher. “What am I going to do with _two_ of them?” She rises, resting on her elbows so that she is bearing down on him, the soft harp of her mouth parted as though in meditation or prayer. “Help me, Obi Wan. Help me protect my family from the galaxy- And the galaxy from my family. And in return, I promise to help you get what _you_ want.”

 

“And what if I don't know what I want?” he breaths, looking slightly desperate, his wide eyes greening with over-warmth.

 

“Then I'll help you figure it out.” She trails her fingers absently over his forearm, admiring the fine coating of saffron hairs. “So, what do you say?”

 

“What do I say... to what?”

 

“I guess, what I'm really asking is...” For one fine moment, the planet turns beneath them, and they gaze into each other's eyes. And then she grips his wrist in a gesture half-savage, half-tender and fearfully, hopefully, brazenly says it:

 

“Will you marry us?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a celibate loner who writes pseudo-literary porn starring beautiful space-wizards, I sometimes wonder what kinds of life choices I _would_ be making if the internet wasn't around to enable this nonsense.


End file.
